It's About Falling
by eternalhope08
Summary: A story about a girl in need of an extraordinary boy, and the collision course that results. Because sometimes all you need is love. PeterxOC. Chapter 17 is finally up! My apologies for the delay. Please keep reading and reviewing.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I went back and re-read the first few chapters of this story. **

**And I hated it.  
Very, very much. **

**So I had to edit it. And this is the product. **

* * *

No one had noticed them disappear. 

It had been a gradual thing, really, so she didn't blame them. First she called in sick once or twice every month. Then once or twice every week. Then finally, she stopped coming altogether, and concentrated instead on her job at the local pub. It wasn't exactly respectable money, but it was money, and she needed it desperately, and so it sufficed temporarily.

She wasn't a loud girl, even before the war started. She had never been one to attract attention to herself, to raise her hand and answer questions in class. She had never been particularly close with any girl; friendly with all, but friends with none. So when no one noticed when she left, she didn't blame them.

A few wives had come visiting when her mother stopped showing up at the neighborhood knitting circles—for the war effort, and for the excellent gossip exchange it presented—on the weekends. But when they were received with ill welcome, and not ushered in warmly as proper etiquette demanded, they sniffed haughtily at the _vulgarity _of that Elliot girl and stopped trying. She didn't blame them.

The only time she blamed them was when she was piss drunk.

Kind of like now.

_The plus side of working at a bar,_ she drawls—if one could drawl inside their own head? She isn't sure on the logistics, but then again, she is drunk—_is the free alcohol_. It was so easy to smuggle home a bottle of vodka in her purse, sneak it in there when no one was looking. The downside were the clients; not exactly the definitions of _class_, if you got her drift.

But it was all tolerable, as long as she kept in mind that in _two more weeks_, she'd be able to pay the rent! She drags her eyes from the bottle of gin in front of her to stare at the messy heap of bills on the counter; each stamped painfully red, glaring at her and accusing her for not paying them yet. The landlord has not been friendly as of late; after his first three or four visits, she'd taken to ignoring him when he knocked on their door, which, curiously enough, did not please him either.

She snorts a bit of gin up her nose as she tries to take a swig, and emerges from the bottle, coughing.

Her mother rolls over on the couch, and she freezes, is silent.

"Are you alright, dear?" Her mother slurs.

"Perfectly fine," she says, and she can't help it, but some of the bitterness inside her squeezes out, overflows despite her attempts to dam it up, and spills over into her words. She regrets it instantly—no, that's a lie, she doesn't regret it at all. She's bitter, damn it, and she has _every right to be_.

"Good," her mom murmurs, oblivious—rolls over, and passes out again.

She gives a short laugh, with no humor behind it.

_There is nothing funny about this life,_ she thinks again, her head pounding. Nothing funny about the trash pile they call an apartment, nothing funny about quitting school before graduation to work and pay the bills. Nothing is humorous about her broken hearted, empty shell of a parent, nothing is funny about alcoholism. Nothing is funny about this whole _fucking war_.

She's thinking too much.

When she thinks too much, it starts to hurt and her eyes start to burn and she can't cry can't cry can't cry because she has to be strong for her mother, because her mom will wake up if she does, and her mom always hates seeing her cry.

She downs the last of her gin—that blessed number of emotions—and falls asleep, still dressed from her day's clothes, at the counter of her kitchen.

She wakes to the sound of knocking at the door. It's not the angry pound of their landlord, Mr. Birmingham, or the falsely sweet rap rap rap of the ladies from the Society. She's curious, wary—stumbles over the door, opens it a peek.

And then she gasps and tries to shove it shut.

"No!" She cries, but she really is no match for the policemen, trained professionals, here on eviction notice.

They barge into the room, a swarm of them, and one of them swears under his breath at the condition of it, and she wants to cry _so damn bad_ because there's nothing she can do to stop it. A dim part of her is laughing, even though there's _nothing funny_, because in two more weeks—fourteen more days—she would've had the money.

"Look at the state of this place," one of the burly men says, gesturing around as he bends to search the cabinets. "Damn shame. They were nice people. Decent."

"Don't touch that!" She snaps at him, striding over and pulling him away from where she hid the alcohol. "You have no right to go there!"

"Actually, miss, we do," he says apologetically, prying her fingers off his arm and confiscating the alcohol. "We've got a search warrant." He gestures at what is apparently their leader, who is indeed brandishing a legal looking document. This other man looks away quickly when he sees she is staring.

She pauses, stunned, but recovers quickly, rounds on the leader.

"Give us two more weeks," she says, begging now. "Two more weeks and I'll have the money, I swear it! I can work overtime, give me _one_ more week, please, just don't kick us out!"

"Sorry, Anne," the man mumbles, still not meeting her gaze. "I've got orders to carry it." He nods at some more men behind her, and she whirls around and suddenly her heart breaks.

They're lifting her mom up, her mother. She's still passed out, is muttering incoherently, her head lolling about as the carry her out of the room.

"Put her down." She hisses, and the sheer anger in her voice is enough to make the leader flinch.

"Orders," he repeats, less firmly.

"She's my _mum_," Anne says plaintively. "I've got nothing without her."

"She needs help, Anne," he says, gentle like. There is pity in his eyes—pity she wants to cut out forcibly, pity she wants to destroy. Pity is useless, and it makes her feel like shit. She hates it. "You both do. You've been marked as truant for the last month—" _So they do notice_, the detached part of her thinks.

"—your mom hasn't shown up at her job, you've quit school when you're underage to support you both, you're squandering your money on alcohol?"

She looks up at the man, gasps because suddenly she knows why he hadn't wanted to look at her, why he knew her name.

"Ian," she says, and the man winces, and she knows she's right. It's Ian Brinksman, her father's partner when he worked with the police force, before he left for the war. "Ian, don't do this. Please, Ian."

"I've got to, Anne," he whispers. "Hell, I've got to. It's the right thing to do. You both need help, and you'll get it."

"Where are you taking her?" Anne asks.

"To a rehab center," Ian replies, sighing. "To help her cope with the alcoholism and the loss of—"

"They're not lost!" Anne bursts in angrily. "You just wait, they'll be home any moment now, they're coming back, and when they do, you'll be sorry, you'll have to answer to my Pa, and you'll be sorry, Ian, you will regret this all!"

"Anne, they're not coming back," Ian says. "Thomas has been missing for eight months now, your brother for over a year. Anne, they're not coming back."

She's not hearing this. She can't take this. Not on this day, not when they're loading her mother on a truck and taking away all the bottles and all that remains of her life and sanity to who knows where. She shakes her head, back and forth, in speechless denial, and then finally, the helplessness and hopelessness and despair of it all hits her, and she starts to cry.

The detached part of her thinks, as the tears stream down silently, that at least her mother isn't nearby to witness it.

* * *

In a very different place, in a very different situation, Peter Pevensie sits bolt upright in his bed, awakened yet again by the Dream.

It's haunted him for a while now, always coming at night, consistent for the past two weeks.

There's nothing special about it. Just a girl. Always the same girl. There's nothing that special about her, either; medium height, medium skin tone, brown hair. Slender, but not overly skinny. Not fat, either. Just a typical girl. Always the same typical girl.

He sees her as if from an aerial view; from the top of her head. She's always just standing still, at the edge of a cliff. He never knows why, but he hopes it's not because she's thinking about jumping.

It always changes, so that he is directly in front of her, staring into her face. She's got freckles and delicate features; so fragile and fine, softly fitting perfectly together. She's pretty, charming, but not beautiful.

Nothing is outstanding about her except the eyes.

Grey and broken.

He always catches just a glimpse; just one haunting glance; at these eyes, before the whole image fades and he wakes up, with Aslan's voice in his ear, saying: "Find her. Catch her."

It's the Dream, and he can't get rid of it.

* * *

Anne swallowed audibly as she approached her new home, with her foster family waiting inside. It was towering and large, a mansion compared to the little house she used to live in. Each eye window seemed to regard her with curiosity as she came nearer, observing the newcomer with puzzlement. Anne turned away. She was not going to be examined like some science experiment gone awry—at least not willingly. 

The black car pulled up into the driveway in front of the small castle, and rolled to a stop right before the steps that led to the elegant door.

"Mr. and Mrs. Wellington are waiting to meet you inside," The stern faced woman in the front seat of the car said in short, clipped tones. "Do be polite. They are not accustomed to teenagers. I shall be parking the car."

Anne nodded and removed herself from the vehicle, clutching her one bag of worldly possessions tightly in both hands. She slowly stepped up to the door and raised her hand to knock. The black car pulled away from behind her.

She was greeted immediately by a warm, smiling woman with curly graying hair piled atop her head in coils upon coils of elegance. The lady was dressed regally, in a dark blue gown with silver trimmings and two pearl drops hung from each earlobe. The Wellingtons were clearly a well off family.

"You must be Anne," Mrs. Wellington said happily, tugging her inside. "Welcome. Oh, you must be famished. Would you like anything to eat? We have tea prepared, and biscuits and butter if you would prefer. My name is Clara. It's so nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too," Anne whispered softly, glancing around at her magnificent surroundings.

"This is my husband, James," Clara gestured at a tall, gray haired gentleman dressed in a fresh, crisp suit behind her. "James, this is Anne." Mr. Wellington nodded his head in greeting, and Anne returned the gesture.

"Now, would you like anything to eat, Anne? I'm sure it was a long journey here. We have things other than biscuits and butter and tea, you know. Would you like a sandwich? I'm sure we have something in the kitchen."

Anne hesitated. "Sorry, Mrs. Wellington, but can you show me to my room? I'd rather rest a bit, please."

"Oh, silly me! Of course, Anne. You must be very tired as well. Oh, and dear, please do call me Clara. Mrs. Wellington makes me feel so old. Come with me, Anne dear. I'll lead you to your room."

"We don't have any children here, so some days might get frightfully lonely. My apologies in advance, Anne dearie. But if you ever do get bored, you have our permission to visit the Professor. He's about two kilometers northwest of here. He's got four children, the Pevensies I believe they are called, residing there as well. Temporarily, of course. But anything is better than nothing, no?" Clara smiled again. "Oh, look at how I'm babbling. I'm sorry; it comes when I'm nervous. I'll let you rest now. Goodnight, dear."

"Thank you," Anne whispered as the door closed. She looked about, at the vast expanses of her elegantly decorated room, and could not help but feel that she preferred the small coziness of her old house to this. She flung herself down on the bed and waited for sleep to claim her.

But sleep did not come, although much time passed. At last, after many hours of simply lying there, Anne swung her legs off of the bed and stood up slowly. She had a sudden craving for exploration.

Her room was rather drab and boring upon second glance. There were pretty oil paintings, rich in color, of random people, smiling hugely, with faces that she did not recognize and happiness that she barely remembered ever feeling. The furniture—a dresser, a closet, and a table—were made of fancy mahogany wood. The only interesting feature of the huge area was a full length, clear and gorgeous mirror on the side wall. It was framed by what looked like gilded gold, wrought and carved to show scenes of a battle long past. A lion, roaring with its powerful jaws wide open, claimed the top. Warriors with magnificent swords and iron shields fought bravely against distorted, grotesque creatures all around. It was truly breathtaking.

She directed her attention to the girl in the mirror, staring back at her with haunted eyes. This girl had once been beautiful, she thought sadly. This girl had once had sparkling, lively eyes and vibrant, thick hair and glowing, radiant skin. She had been in the prime of her youth, and beautiful in that peculiar way that all happy people are. Now she was but a shadow of the past, torn and broken. Those eyes were deadened and the hair limp and the skin pale and drawn from exhaustion and worry.

She reached out with one trembling hand to gently touch the dream girl's face, to bring herself back to reality, to awaken. It was all just a bad dream, she told herself as the fingers neared. Her mother wasn't a depressed drunk. She herself wasn't working day and night to try and support her family. Her brother and father weren't MIA. No, everything was alright. All she needed was to wake up. It was just a nightmare, after all.

She pushed hard against the mirror, against that girl's porcelain face and delicate features, wishing to make it all disappear.

To her consternation, where there ought to be a hard surface, cold glass bringing her back to the cold truth, there was nothing but air. Her hand went right through the mirror, rippling the silvery sheen, and then disappeared into nothingness.

Anne gave a yelp of surprise as she lost her balance and tumbled through the mirror into a new world.

* * *

**A/N: Alright, there we go! Still emo, but a little better, yes? Please read and review, as alwaysss!!!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I doth not owneth…**

**A/N: Ahahaha REVIEWERS! I thrive off your replies like some unhealthy addiction, I _swear. _It's like my marijuana to open my inbox and see reviews : ). (that was a joke. I'm not a druggy, I swear). I appreciate it so so so so so much! YAY keep it coming! **

**Oh and P.S. Warn me if Anne wanders into Mary-Sue territory, for I'm quite nervous about that…yes, I gave her a tragic past. Oh crap…**

Peter had been though quite a few strange things in life. In all honesty, bragging aside, not much weirded him out anymore. He wouldn't deny it—seeing a centaur, two abnormally large beavers, and wolves that literally wanted to rip him to bloody pieces with their sharp fangs (all that talked, by the way) would definitely count towards "strange." So would being crowned High King of a land that he had never heard of before that fateful wardrobe came into his path. But, upon further consideration as time went on, not much came close to a girl tumbling out of his bedroom mirror right as he was walking past it to get into bed.

Which was, of course, exactly what happened. He'd always had bad luck.

There was no other way to explain it—no eloquent words to describe what happened. He was passing by his mirror, specially given to him by Aslan, in a dark blue, long sleeved, lightweight cotton tunic, ready to go to sleep, when she just _tumbled out of it_.

Straight into him. She knocked him over. He was so shocked that he forgot to scream.

Unfortunately, she definitely remembered. It took her a few stunned, silent seconds—in which they simply lay there, a tangle of limbs and clothes on the beige carpeted floor, him on bottom with her atop.

Then it began—a long, fear filled, wordless shriek that emitted from the girl on him. He flinched at the unearthly raucous, especially since it was so close to his very sensitive eardrums, as she hurriedly picked herself up and backed up against the wall, pressed against it, the scream never stopping this entire time.

Looking about frantically, the girl picked up a lengthy iron poker, normally used to get the fire started, out of the fireplace. She held it at arm's length, the hot tip trembling, pointed at him.

"HELP!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, causing him to wince again as he got up warily as well. "Help!"

"I'm not trying to hurt you!" He cried in exasperation. Honestly—women folk! She jabbed the iron poker threateningly, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Don't get any closer. Stop right there! I'm warning you, I will burn you!" This was punctuated by a wild flailing of the stick. She seriously looked _insane_. Fear burned and flashed in her eyes, almost scaring him.

He backed off slowly, moving away from the door to give her a clear path to run, before he noticed them. Her _eyes_. They were huge, bright green orbs in a pale face—haunted and beautifully familiar. From his _dream_!

"I know you!" He said in excitement, and moved closer to her, pointing at her face, trying to observe the green eyes from closer. "You're from my--OWWW!"

She had definitely burned his arm, to keep him away from her. He clutched at the wound on his arm in agony, pulling away his uninjured hand in shock.

"You burned me!" He cried, pointing at the burnt, smoking cloth and red welt growing on his skin. "That _hurt_."

"Serves you right," She said fervently, fiercely, still holding the poker stick, although her arm was wobbling crazily and her face had gone even whiter, as if she couldn't believe she had done it. She probably hadn't meant to, either. "Don't you dare come near me again. HELP! Mr. Wellington? Mrs. Wellington? Clara? James? ANYONE? RAPE! FIRE, RAPE, HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME PLEASE, RAPE!"

He flinched again at the noise. They were back to _this_? And what was she babbling about, Claire and James who?

Thundering footsteps came up the stairs, pounding and frantic. The door flew open to reveal Susan's red face, and Lucy and Edmund panting for breath behind her. They were all in their nightclothes. Peter groaned. He had forgotten they were staying at his castle for the next month or two—as kind of a family vacation together. They did this annually in the summer, every year that they had ruled, and it had been his turn to offer hospitality this summer. There could be no one worse to hear a girl accusing him of rape than his siblings.

"Thank you," The girl said. "He was going to _rape _me!"

There was a silence, in which all three of the remaining Pevensies looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Lucy stifled a chuckle, muffling it behind her hand. Then it began.

"Rape?" Susan said in mock shock, pointing at Peter. "Oh my, I can't believe this horrid excuse for a human being! Shame on you!" She sent an amused, mirthful glance in Peter's direction.

"Rape?" Edmund chimed in, flashing a secret devilish glare at his older brother, who rolled his eyes in reply. "He should rot in the dungeons for it."

"Indeed," The girl continued coldly, relieved that someone was on her side. Slowly the hot iron poker came down from her side. Then she spotted the huge grins on all of their faces. "Why are you all smiling? He tried to _rape _me, for heavens' sake!"

"I was not trying to do anything of the sort!" Peter cried in protest. "You toppled out of my mirror onto _me, _not vice versa. I was simply trying to get to bed. If anyone should be crying rape, it would be ME."

She stood there, silent, contemplating what he had just said. A look of comprehension and sheepish shame at her actions slowly passed over her face. She quickly brushed it away.

Peter groaned. _A stubborn one. Just his luck._

"And look!" He pressed his case to his now giggling siblings. "She burned me. She used that poker stick thing and _burned _me." He held out his left arm in defiance, showing them all the ruined cloth and red welt. Lucy was downright crying from laughter, silent tears running down her cheeks and her breath coming in quiet gasps.

"Well, you deserved it. I warned you, and you _still _came closer to me." She mumbled resentfully, but Peter could see he had won. He merely raised his eyebrows.

"And by the way," She continued, trying to fight and failing. "Where the hell am I?"

* * *

His name was Peter Pevensie—the boyish man that she had first seen in this strange, strange world. He had refused to explain anything to her, running a hand over his face and telling her that it was far too late and he was far too tired, and that all would make sense in the morning. After bidding goodnight to the other three (Susan, Edmund, and Lucy—she learned that they were all his siblings later on), he led her into a room a few doors down, with a bed pre-made and a fire already going.

The plush looking pillows and fluffy, warm down comforters called to her sleep deprived mind. She barely even heard him say that the servants had made this room for her, and that she was to sleep here for the night. In seconds, before he had left the room, she flopped onto the bed and snuggled under the covers.

Her last coherent thought revolved around thinking she would wake up the morning, and that this pleasant dream would be naught but memory. It was quite depressing to think of the reality that awaited her.

* * *

When she awoke, she was still in that regal bedroom. The pillow, the canopy bed, the sun shining…it was still there—which made matters all the more frightening. To her left was a bedside table which she hadn't noticed earlier, made out of fancy wood and on the right a giant wardrobe, huge and elegant. The carpet was soft and lush, the canopy drapes silky. She could see the sun peeking out of crevices of the two giant windows on the far side of the room.

Swinging her legs out of the warm blankets, she ran down the hall to where she had arrived the night before and flung open the door, her mind muddled and confused and eager for enlightenment.

"You need to explain things to me!" She cried, bursting inside the room in anger and frustration. Then she noticed that he was halfway through the process of removing his blue tunic, and that she had barged into him while he was half naked and changing into new clothes. Anne gave a yelp and backed out quickly, closing the door behind her.

He heaved a sigh, audible through even the wooden door. She flinched.

"You're lucky that was only my shirt I was taking off," He said loudly, so she could hear him. "Or else I'd be in a really, _really _bad mood."

"Sorry, I forgot to knock." She explained plainly.

The door opened, and Peter stuck his head out, another shirt firmly in place.

"I noticed," He replied dryly, stepping out all the way and closing the door behind him. "So what did you want?" He folded his arms and leaned against the hallway wall, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"I want to know where the hell I am," She said simply. "It's not everyday you tumble out of a mirror into a new world and witness someone stripping _without locking their door_." She didn't even bother to be subtle.

"It's not everyday that you become a _tumblee_ and get tumbled out _AT_, or burned by the poker stick in your own fire, or that people barge into your room _without knocking_," He replied back, although his lips twitched slightly. "_OR _that people sleep for a night in your house without saying thank you _at all_. My burn still hurts, by the way. I think I might have a scar." He rolled up his sleeve to observe.

"Well, my _brain _might have a scar from witnessing you strip," She declared.

"Maybe if you had knocked, you wouldn't be scarred," Peter retorted.

"Maybe if you had locked your door—"

And so it began.

* * *

She stayed frightfully quiet throughout his whole explanation, simply listening with her mouth set peculiarly and her eyes focused on a spot on the plate in front of her, brow furrowed in concentration.

He told her about everything—well, basically everything. Some parts were not his for the telling, so he left them out. He brushed over the topic of Edmund's betrayal, feeling that a tale for Edmund himself to relay. He was vague on the subject of Aslan's death, avoiding all details, for he wasn't there to witness the happening himself.

But what he could tell her, he did. He left nothing out, including the fear he felt when he was fighting, and the hopelessness that captured his heart when he heard of Aslan's death. For, after all, he was Peter the Magnificent—not the Perfect. He had human doubts and failings as well.

And then he was done—the tale was told, Narnia was explained. He paused at looked at her for a reaction, well aware that neither had eaten a bite of breakfast yet.

She had raised those green, green eyes from her plate and was staring at his blue ones, head cocked to the side. He had to resist the strong urge to squirm in his seat. Never before had High King Peter the Magnificent felt so scrutinized. Like an experiment, something to be observed and data extracted from. A silence fell upon the breakfast table, long and unnerving.

"Do you know," She said at last, her tone peaceful, breaking the awful awkwardness. "Even if you are a dream, I think I'd prefer not to wake up right now."

"That's good," He answered, still staring at her. "Because I'm not a dream. And you're not waking up until Aslan's plan for you is carried out."

* * *

Her name was Anne Elliot, and she was breathtaking in a haunting way, like a shadow, reminescent and nostalgic of a previous, unbelievable beauty. He was enchanted upon first glance. It was odd, though—no one could figure out exactly why she was so enthralling (especially Peter). Her eyes were too big for her face, too sad and broken for one of her young age, her face too drawn and pale for her hair, her hair a plain brown that brought out her freckles, her freckles drawing attention to a slightly crooked mouth. And yet, somehow, all these imperfections and flaws joined together to create a marvelous, unorthodoxcharm that was unique to the girl alone.

It was puzzling, what made her so captivating. Perhaps it was the spark of life that seemed to light up her face. Perhaps it was the fact that one could see the hint of hope behind the thick veil of hurt, depression, and ache in her eyes. Perhaps it was because of the mysterious aura that surrounded her—she refused to talk about her past, or her family, or her home life. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she wasn't perfect, as no human being truly is, and she was a living reminder that you did not have to be perfect to be beautiful.

Or, Peter thought absently, perhaps it was a mixture of all of them.

**A/N: PLEASE READ AND REVIEW! Constructive crit is appreciated, but mindless obnoxious flames not : ). I would appreciate it greatly.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: PSH no. **

**A/N: Oh dear. I haven't updated in _forever_, have I? Oh dear. I apologize so much—you all were wonderful, what with reviewing and constructive criticism…and this is how I repay you? Oh dear. Please forgive me?

* * *

**

Anne had been in Narnia for a bout a week when Peter soon found out how extraordinarily moody she could be. Great were the numbers of moments in which she would seclude herself from the rest of the group and sit quietly, ever silent, off to the side of a conversation. During these times, her eyes would fade and her face pale, giving her a ghostly, eerie aura. If an attempt at small talk ever got past five sentences when Anne was in one of her 'phases', Peter would honestly consider knighting the person who accomplished it. She was bloody confusing during these times, and he generally avoided her.

But today was a good day. She had pranced into his room (without knocking, like always—he had learned to lock it when changing to avoid potentially embarrassing situations) early in the morning and spun around in a circle, her brown hair in a thick braid and cream skirt billowing and brushing against his right leg. Then she had declared:

"I want to go outside today. Narnia looks so beautiful."

He had glanced out the window and realized once again that indeed, the land he ruled over was gorgeous. The lush fields of grass, little streams of clear water, and deep green forest all seemed to glow in the sunshine, beckoning for them to romp in. So of course he obliged—for there was nothing like fresh air and sun to cheer one's spirit.

That was where they ended up—sitting outside, in a flat grassy meadow, simply enjoying the warm summer day and the feel of the itchy grass beneath them. She was currently absorbed in creating a dandelion crown, weaving the stems in and out and tying knots in a pattern that made him dizzy trying to follow. So instead he simply sat there, basking in the sun, and watched the wind blow the blades of grass into a sort of forced dance, bending and swaying reluctantly according to the breeze's fancy.

He had become her unspoken, self proclaimed guardian over the past week that she had been in Narnia. Everywhere she went (within reason, of course. No matter how many times it happened to him, Peter's dignity refused to allow him to simply barge into a lady's room) Peter would be a few steps behind, ready to catch her if anything happened.

He was still puzzling over exactly what Aslan's commands had meant. Perhaps Anne had a serious disorder of sorts, in which she would have sporadic seizures and required someone to guard her from injury during one of these mishaps. Or maybe she was just clumsy and tripped often. Or maybe he was taking it too literally.

He returned his attention from meaningless daydreams, and lazily flicked his grey blue gaze over to the girl sitting next to him, back bent over the flowers currently in her hand and eyes focused upon that alone. The dandelion chain was coming along quite nicely. She'd be finished soon.

He cocked his head to side slightly, watching the captivatingly crooked mouth and too large eyes. Her freckles stood out even more in the light, and he smothered a smile at how childish she looked.

"I'm done!" She cried triumphantly, and then promptly placed the flowers atop her head, her face alight and giddy. He mimed applause for her, but she was too ecstatic to see the sarcasm in his smirk, or the slight roll of his eyes he gave. At last, secretly grinning because of her infectious attitude, he motioned for her to stand up.

"It's not the same if you don't twirl," He said solemnly. "Lucy told me so."

She followed suit obligingly, spinning about twice in a circle. He looked on in approval. She stopped suddenly, her cheeks tinged with pink, and smiled shyly, as if embarrassed by her sudden show of happiness.

"Go on," He egged. "Dance a bit. Try out the crown."

"I need a partner," She murmured, voice soft and crooked smile flashing bewitchingly at him.

"Well, you've got yourself one," He replied gallantly, lifting himself off the ground and taking her hand gently in his. "May I have this dance, milady?" He bowed elegantly, almost mockingly, at the waist, taking care to straighten slowly and regain his regal posture.

"But there's no music," She pointed out plaintively, pulling her hand back in hesitation.

"You don't hear it?" He asked, surprised. Someone with eyes like hers _had _to have it. The spark. Imagination. Spirit.

She shook her head slowly, no, and an expression of yearning, of wistfulness flitted across her features. It was as if she was struggling to call back a long lost memory from her childhood, and couldn't quite grasp it, like it was just out of her reach.

Just as quickly as it came, it faded, leaving her eyes empty and sad again. She quirked her mouth into her crooked half smile, and shrugged slightly.

"Don't worry," He whispered sympathetically. "I'll teach you."

"All the same," Anne mused. "I think this is better than all the crowns of England put together." She twirled one more time, and the ache in her eyes was erased.

Looking at her face, aglow with youth, Peter had to agree.

* * *

The two Pevensie sisters took an immediate liking to Anne. Susan found her calm, quiet moods peaceful to be around, and the two elder girls often spent hours together, chatting softly or sitting in a comfortable silence, contemplating who knows what together or alone. Each girl understood the subtle difference between solitude and loneliness, and knew how to utilize this knowledge to the best of their abilities.

Lucy, on the other hand, enjoyed the brief flashes of a wilder Anne—when the older girl's eyes would sparkle and face light up. Ever openhearted and innocent, the young child accompanied Anne whenever Peter, whether stuck in a conference or negotiating an argument, couldn't. The two would 'sneak' out of the house just before twilight—Peter always pretended not to notice this despite it being the most obvious act in the world—and romp about together, spending hours lying under the starlit sky, simply gazing at the moon. Sometimes he would watch them waltz together, bursting into sporadic bouts of laughter, out of his window.

Other days they would arrange to wake up especially early and catch the sunrise. Although Anne pleaded with him constantly to accompany them on these trips, Peter always refused. He valued his sleep.

To make up for the fondness of the Pevensie sisters, Edmund existed. He gave every appearance of detesting Anne, although Peter knew that deep inside, it was just doubt and mistrust that Edmund suffered from.

Anne noticed, too. Although Edmund never breached courtesy with the girl, and gave all the polite answers to her questions, he would shoot the newcomer wary glares, or taint each word he directed at her with scorn and malice. She was a bright girl. It hurt her feelings.

It all started, Peter thought, with that summer day aforementioned, when she made her crown of flowers. He had lost all track of time, sitting there with her, laughing as he tried to explain to her about the melody of life.

"Just sit still and listen!" He cried in exasperation one last time, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to stop fidgeting. She had a horrible inability to sit still for prolonged periods of time, and it both irritated him and amused him at the same time. Anne tried her best to obey, but five minutes later her back itched, and her hair was in her eyes, and that one flower looked so pretty…

"You'll never hear it if you can't stop moving," Peter explained to her, his lips twitching as he watched her bat at an insect that buzzed in her ear. He leaned over and grabbed her hand, easing it into her lap.

"I'm trying, Peter, but I _can't_." She replied plaintively, sending him a pleading look that clearly stated her boredom.

"You'd better learn if you don't want to appear a savage in the court," A voice said coolly from behind the two. Peter quickly withdrew his hand from Anne's and whipped around to see his younger brother. Edmund was regarding Anne, with her skirt muddied, freckled face, and crooked crown of wilted flowers, with a look of utmost contempt.

"Hello, Edmund," He greeted, shading his eyes from the sun.

"Good morning," Anne said cheerfully.

"Actually, it's the afternoon," Edmund replied, his tone still cold and aloof. He directed his gaze at his brother. "Peter, you're late for lunch. The servants said you'd gone off with her, so I came to find you. You also had a meeting at eleven with the Lords from Mireshade. Because we couldn't find you, we arranged for them to come tomorrow at the same time." With that, the dark headed boy turned on his heel and stiffly began to walk away. Peter cursed himself for missing the meeting.

"Wait, Edmund," Anne called. "You can stay with us a bit. It's such a nice summer day. It'd be a shame to spend it indoors."

Edmund stopped in his tracks, and Anne looked almost hopeful for a second.

"Some of us," He began. "Actually have work to do and cannot spend hours upon silly, fruitless activities. Peter, you'd be better off getting back to work and leaving her to learn some courtroom etiquette. God knows she needs it." And then he continued walking.

Peter glanced quickly at his companion and saw her downcast expression. He sighed sadly at the ruins of the pretty afternoon, and inwardly decided to give Edmund a good scolding.

"Am I really a savage, Peter?" Anne asked quietly, pulling her crown off.

"No," He answered fiercely. "He was just being a prick. Don't worry, Anne. I don't think you're barbaric in the least. Edmund just…Ignore him, Anne."

She nodded slightly, but didn't look convinced.

* * *

It happened again at breakfast two or three days later. Anne had waltzed in with Lucy, their cheeks rosy and hair somewhat mussed, laughing aloud. Her eyes danced when she laughed, and it made some part of Peter's heart smile to see it. He was growing rather fond of the girl, and he felt almost as if she were an old friend, or a sister--some long lost part of the family.

They had sat down together at the table with Susan and Peter and Edmund, and began to eat their meal. Somehow—and Peter forgot how it came about—Lucy and Anne had begun a bubble blowing contest with their milk.

It made him laugh, watching her. He watched her quite frequently nowadays, simply reveling in the moments when she seemed to open up and _live_. It made him happy.

Anne took in a particularly deep breath and blew through her straw forcefully, causing the milk to froth and foam and bubble until it reached the top of her glass and slowly settled downwards again. Lucy squealed with delight and did the same. Through gentle coaxing and well timed breaths, Lucy managed to get the bubbles to grow over the top of her glass, where they hung tremulously. Any more would cause the bubbles to topple over. It was a delicate balance, all due to the beauties of water tension.

Anne watched in awe, and then decided to try it herself. But the older girl lacked the patience and talent Lucy had, and blew too hard—the bubbles promptly overflowed and spilled onto the table.

Quick as a flash it was mopped up by servants. But that did not hinder Edmund.

"Look at her!" The boy burst out angrily. He had been shooting the two annoyed glares the entire time, and could not longer hold it in. "She's even corrupting our Lucy! Blowing bubbles at the table. Send her to learn manners, Peter!"

"Edmund," Susan began, putting a calming hand on her brother's arm.

"Stop it," Peter commanded sternly. He saw Anne's crestfallen features, and glared back at his brother.

"You spoil her, Peter!" Edmund continued heatedly. "You're allowing her to become a perfect brute with no restraints or manners whatsoever. She'll never be accepted in court, and since it seems like she plans to stay, I ask that you educate her before she becomes a further embarrassment to us."

Lucy gasped in indignation, and Peter patted her shoulder, letting her know he would deal with this.

"Edmund," He said in warning.

"Lucy's _years _younger, and _she _takes lessons," Edmund spat. "Although with this sort of influence ever present, I doubt Lucy will ever be able to retain the knowledge she's gained. The conservatives will never accept her, Peter. Go get her trained." He pushed his chair back and made to leave the table.

"EDMUND!" Peter roared.

"WHAT?" He shouted back, outraged.

"You have offended our guest," Peter continued shakily, managing to control his temper through intense effort. "Please apologize."

"I refuse," Edmund replied coldly. "She has no right to be here! You all trust her so effortlessly, so wholeheartedly. I cannot believe that someone as rude as her deserves a place at Narnia. She's gotten all your attentions and won your affections for what? Being silly? Lacking in productivity?"

It was sad. The Pevensies rarely fought since their arrival at Narnia. This was the biggest one yet.

After the disastrous breakfast, Peter, still fuming, went off to find Anne. She was not in her bedroom (thankfully—Peter had enough trouble opening the door without being asked in. If he had to stay in there for too long, he would've died of mortification), nor the library, nor was she anywhere in the castle.

And so he traveled outside to see her sitting in their spot—a small hill in the middle of the meadow, by the edge of the woods and bushes. She was listlessly picking the petals off a flower, her gaze troubled and distracted.

She didn't talk much to him, although he tried to comfort her, to reassure her that she was fine and that Edmund was simply being stupid. Peter suspected Anne didn't hear a word he said, although she nodded plenty.

He heaved a sigh. All that hard work at getting her to open up a bit had just been flushed down the loo. The girl was back to her original self—moody, distant, and closed.

* * *

The next day she did not barge into his room at unearthily early hours. She did not ask him to go outside all morning. He was puzzled at her absence and, he would admit, rather nostalgic. She was a pleasant companion in her good moods—easy going and funny.

He searched for her casually (or so he hoped) around the castle. It took him a good hour (in which he grew increasingly frustrated) before he found her…

**A/N: Yes, it is almost 2:00 a.m. Yes, I did update. Yes, it was abnormally long for me. Yes, you should reward me with a review. Yes, constructive criticism is allowed. No, I do not like obnoxious flames. I do apologize for the late update. REVIEW, though...please?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I doth not owneth.**

**A/N: REVIEWERS! Ahh! You guys are so amazing. Thanks to all who suffered through my horrid lack of commitment (which I promise I'm trying to improve) and reviewed! I really appreciate everyone. Thank you soooo much!**

**P.S. And before anyone catches it, boredly is not a word. But I really think it ought to be.**

Peter pressed himself against the wall of the corridor, occasionally peeking through the doorway to see what his sisters and Anne were doing.

Unbeknownst to the girls, Peter watched as Anne drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and back, lifted her head, and placed the book atop it once more. With small, terribly stiff looking steps, she began to mince her way across the room. Once she reached the other side she dropped her rigid posture quickly, removed the novel from her head, and turned to the two Pevensie sisters, a questioning look on her faces.

Susan was lounging boredly on the bed, staring at the novel currently in Anne's hands with longing. Obviously she had been quite absorbed in that volume before Anne had taken it for other uses. Lucy lay sprawled on the ground with her head propped up on one elbow, yawning with no subtlety whatsoever. Clearly both were uninterested.

"Well?" Anne prompted at long last. "What do you think?"

"You need to glide more," Lucy answered dully. "Not so much stiffness—more grace, more elegance. Glide smoothly."

"I _did_, I thought," Anne said in exasperation, flinging the book down in frustration as she fell onto the couch beside Susan. Quick as a flash the elder Pevensie sister reached down and picked it up, flipped to the right page, and without delay continued to read.

"Oh, Anne," Lucy sighed. "Do it again."

The older girl did so obediently (to Susan's displeasure), but to no avail. She still looked uncomfortable and ill at ease, and desperately lacked the aforementioned grace and elegance. It made Peter stifle a laugh at her forlorn expression.

"Anne," Lucy began for the tenth time. "No one _cares _if you can walk right. No one _cares _if you call both a duke and a King milord. No one _cares _if you use the salad fork for eating pasta. Why does it matter so much to you?"

"I just do." Anne answered coldly.

"You're _not _an embarrassment," Susan replied, her voice tired. Peter sensed that this conversation had been repeated many a time beforehand. "Edmund was just being a prat. He has…trouble, I suppose you could call it, trusting people. Thus the nitpicking."

Anne ignored Susan's explanation, snatched the book out of the older Pevensie's hand (despite the outraged cry), and stuck it firmly on her head again. She continued to mince about, showing no improvement whatsoever. Peter felt his mouth twitch into an unwanted smile.

"Anne," Lucy complained. "We're _bored_. Why don't we go outside to play? You can leave Susan to read her book. Please?"

The girl stopped, and glared at Lucy for a moment.

"Fine," She snapped rudely. "I'll stop _boring _you now. Susan—your book." She tossed it to the older girl airily, and then stomped out of the room.

"Oh, Anne, we didn't mean it like _that_!" Lucy cried dismally.

"Don't leave, Anne!" Susan added in, ignoring her book temporarily.

Peter, unfortunately, was trying to muffle his smile at the girl's terrible temper right as she exited. He tried to scurry away and hide, but too late—Anne had caught side of him, and of the smile upon his features.

"How long were you standing there?" She cried angrily.

"A few minutes," Peter answered back. "Long enough to see your walk."

"Is that what you were laughing at?" She flared, her whole being fiery. "Do you have a habit of eavesdropping and laughing at the attempts of others to improve as well as stripping without locking your door?"

"Do _you _have a habit of being inexplicably rude to people who are just trying to help you?" He retorted sharply.

"You just enjoy seeing others suffer," She replied airily, pretending to walk away.

"I don't think you'd _know _the definition of suffering," Peter replied in the same careless tone. His mind flashed back to the memories of air raids in England, in which his entire family would cower in the dark of the bomb shelters, not knowing whether this one would destroy their house and possibly their lives, or where their father was, or how long they would be cramped in that nightmarish room.

She whirled around at that. For a brief moment she seemed to _flame_—her eyes blazed, her jaw set, her shoulders straightened. Then she approached him, got so close that he could almost feel the heat and anger rolling off her in waves.

"Oh?"" She whispered, her voice deadly. As much as he hated to admit it, she frightened him. "You don't think I know what it means to suffer?"

"I don't," Peter affirmed, throwing back his shoulders as well, his eyes now a cold, dark grey. If she wanted to play with fire, then he'd let her. It was about time for Anne to learn a lesson.

He was expecting some fierce comeback. Instead, she_ slapped_ him. Hard. She swung back her arm and _slapped _the High King of Narnia across his cheek. Almost wonderingly, he reached up to feel the injured area and saw in a nearby hallway mirror that it was turning red. Fast. The sharp, stinging pain spread quickly throughout his face.

"_Don't_ talk about what you don't know about," Anne spat, her very face pale and eyes still afire. Then she turned on her heel and walked away, her posture still proud and angry.

"Oh, dear," A whisper came from Peter's right, making him whip around. Lucy was standing there, Susan just a short while behind her, both of them awestruck. "She's really very, very mad."

"Peter!" Susan exclaimed, catching sight of her brother's face. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," He muttered furiously.

"Someone should go see if she's okay," Lucy murmured in concern, watching after Anne's haughty figure. She made as if to go, but Peter stopped her gently.

"I'll do it," He said. Lucy looked at him warily, and Peter interpreted her glance correctly. "I'm not mad at her. We won't fight anymore. Just don't worry about it, alright?" The two girls nodded uncertainly, and he started off after Anne.

* * *

Peter found her in her bedroom almost immediately. She was sitting in a couch by the window, staring outside sullenly. The grey weather and soft light cast a bittersweet glow upon Anne's delicate features, making her seem eerie and unearthly. All the fire seemed to have left her soul by now, and she looked deathly pale and troubled. He noticed suddenly how incredibly thin the girl was, and decided to make it his duty to make her a healthy size again.

"Anne?" He whispered. She turned to face him, eyes dull. Anne made no reply.

"Are you alright?" He plowed onwards, pulling a chair next to her. He sat slowly, and she made no move to escape. Instead she nodded, and directed her gaze back to the window. It seemed as if she weren't noticing the outside world of Narnia, and instead was caught up in thoughts of her own.

"Tell me what's troubling you," He whispered gently. He moved with caution, as if one would with a frightened animal, to look into her face and preoccupied eyes. "Would you look at me? Anne?"

She tore her gaze away from her thoughts and looked at him, taking in his face and his caring expression and the red, red handprint upon his left cheek.

"Oh, Peter," She breathed apologetically. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached up to stroke his cheek. Her touch was soft, and in the brief contact her fingertips had with his skin, he felt her convey her regret. He shivered slightly at her intensity.

"Are you alright?" She asked, pulling away hurriedly, as if embarrassed.

"It's nothing," He murmured. "I've had worse." He smiled tenderly. Everything about this atmosphere seemed soft—quiet, subdued, heartbroken. They let the silence hang there for a moment, for it was a comfortable one. She returned to her upsetting thoughts

"I need to go back," She said at long last. Once again she was staring out the window. It had started to rain, as the grey clouds forecast, and the window was soon covered with streaks of raindrops. "I can't stay here anymore."

"Why?" He asked, somewhat confused. He could see no reason why she would want to leave Narnia. It was a land of peace and prosperity, of plenty, of happiness. "Tell me." The compelling tone in his voice made her continue.

"I need to care for my mother," She replied. "Maybe she's not doing so well. I just _left _her, you know, Peter. She's not…capable of taking care of herself right now."

"Tell me," He asked again. She shook her head no this time.

"Maybe later." She looked so pitiful, so small compared to the great couch, staring into the grey skies. So he sat down next to her and pulled her hesitantly into a hug—a brief one, for he was embarrassed too—but a hug nonetheless. Just to let her know that he was there for her.

She smiled aloud, a rare talent of hers, and the mood was broken. Drawing the curtains on the grey world outside, Anne flicked on a lamp. The room was suddenly lit by a golden glow.

"Anyway," Anne continued cheerfully, pretending as if the past few minutes hadn't happened. "What'd you do wrong?"

"What did _I _do wrong?" Peter asked, a bit confused by this sudden change in moods. Apparently Anne didn't want to think about the past anymore.

"Yes, you," Anne said, laughing.

"Why do you think I did something wrong?" Peter questioned. He was still somewhat puzzled.

"Well," She replied, settling herself comfortably on the couch so that she was facing him. "I was an absolute nightmare this morning. Perfectly terrible."

He felt his mouth twitch into a smile. He couldn't deny it.

"And," Anne continued. "You didn't kick me out. You didn't hit me back, you didn't shout at me. Neither did Lucy and Susan, despite my abysmal lack of manners. You were a perfect gentleman."

Peter shrugged, a bit flustered at this flood of compliments.

"So I have inferred that you must've done something wrong. My theory is that you…" Her eyes sparkled imaginatively. "You killed someone! That must be it. You killed someone, and your conscience is not letting you go about it. So you try to be nice to me, as a bit of a payback. To ease your guilt."

Peter laughed out loud at this outlandish proposition.

"I _killed _someone?" He asked incredulously when he could breathe again.

"Yes!" She replied, ever vibrant. At the shake of his head, she continued to fire suggestions at him. "Stole something valuable? Evaded the draft?"

He shook his head again and again, still laughing.

"Fine. Maybe…ate a cake that was cooked for Lucy's birthday. No, it has to be worse. Wait…mortally injured someone! Accidentally hurt a cancer patient?"

He was laughing outright now.

"Then what?" She cried in exasperation.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Anne asked skeptically. "You did nothing? You mean you're as perfect as you seem?"

"I'm not perfect," Peter said in indignation. "I've made my mistakes too."

Anne snorted in amusement.

"Compared to me you haven't." She replied seriously.

Suddenly her happy mood faded just as quickly as it came. Her eyes became grave, and she said, in an urgent tone: "Peter, if you were smart, you wouldn't have anything more to do with me. I'd leave now if I were you, for your own safekeeping and benefit.. Don't say I haven't warned you."

And she wouldn't speak any more of it for the rest of the day.

**A/N: Another chapter! MWAHAHEEHEEHAHAHA! Read and review, please, because I updated so quickly :).**

**P.S. As always, constructive criticism is appreciated and loved. Obnoxious flames…not. **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So I received from a lot of you awesome reviewers some requests that I make Edmund stop being so mean, and that he was a bit OOC for being such a jerk to Anne. This all ties into the story line—so don't worry. Our beloved Edmund will return to normal soon…and you can hold me to that :). Anyway, while we're waiting—THANK YOU FOR READING AND REVIEWING! I appreciate it _so _much. **

**Disclaimer: Me? Own? AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA….

* * *

**

Edmund had always been fond of puzzles. It was another quality of his that set him apart from his siblings. Peter found the activity absolutely pointless, while Susan preferred to read her books. Lucy did not have the patience to complete one thoroughly, so that always left Edmund to himself in the slow, meticulous process. He never minded. It gave him an opportunity to revel in his own thoughts and presence. Alone time was necessary to maintain his sanity.

There was something so fascinating about the hobby—knowing that each little piece somehow fit together logically to create a masterpiece--a full, beautiful picture. Everything fit so perfectly. To him, each new, scattered mess of bits seemed to represent his life. No matter how blank and empty and pointless each part seemed, when put together, the result would be glorious. There was a purpose to everything that happened. Every event, every piece contributed.

Something about the order, the lack of chaos—the serene tranquility that lay in knowing everything belonged—comforted him. No matter how abstract, everything had a place. Everything would fall into place. And Edmund liked it. He enjoyed the organization.

Anne, however, was one piece that, try as he might, he could not fit into his life. The girl confused him. There was absolutely no stability in this child woman. She didn't _belong_.

His siblings thought otherwise. Everyone loved Anne, despite her flighty mood swings. He couldn't. In the deepness of those desperate green eyes, he saw a hint of himself. When she sat by herself in a corner while everyone else laughed merrily, he recognized the emotion that plagued her. When she responded cynically, cruelly, to a suggestion, he could literally taste the familiar smell of hatred. She reminded him of the old Edmund, filled with troubles and anxieties, jealous that others could be so happy. He wanted nothing to do with the old Edmund.

He couldn't take his problems to any of his siblings, for they were all captivated by Anne for some obscure, unknown reason. Instead he talked to Aslan, although the Great Lion was not physically present during these chats. Edmund developed a habit of walking along the shores of Narnia alone whilst his siblings and the intruder talked and ran outside in the sunny afternoons. He would converse with Aslan then, finding comfort in the presence that he sensed accompanied him.

"Why is she here?" He would ask aloud, grateful for the solitude. "Do I need more remindings of my old mistakes?"

And no matter how many times he pleaded for an answer, the wind would simply bring to him silence and whispers to wait.

Perhaps that was the answer. Patience. It took time to find the right pieces that fit together, especially in a puzzle as large as his life. He would wait and observe, and perhaps, as time passed, he would discover exactly why Anne was in Narnia.

* * *

Anne emerged from the shower early that morning, refreshed and in a new, clean dress. Her hair, still wet, was pulled back in her typical braid. She stepped out of the doorway, humming slightly, ready to take on the world.

"You look nice," A low, familiar voice said from her left. She spun in surprise to see Peter leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest

"I _feel _nice," She replied, swishing her skirts about. Peter chuckled as he watched her smooth out the pretty fabric and run her fingers through it, enjoying the silky feel.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Have you ever had a dress that made you feel like dancing?" To demonstrate, she did a little twirl and curtsy.

"Not recently," Peter answered, solemn faced. "The last dress that had that effect on me was a few months ago."

"Oh, shut up," She laughed. "My spirits are too high to be affected by your sarcasm." She sniffed haughtily to prove her point.

"Alright, Anne," He said, reaching out and tugging affectionately on the end of her braid. It was a habit with him—he often did this to Lucy's curls. "Let's get moving."

Anne looked up and quirked and eyebrow.

"Moving?" She queried.

"Yes, moving. Walking. I'm sure you've heard of it. Perhaps you've even seen it sometime before."

"My, you're awfully cynical today," Anne noted cheerily, still swaying side to side and taking pleasure in the swishing sounds of her skirt.

"Someone has to balance you out," He retorted. "Now let's move."

"Where to?" Anne was still puzzled, and she tilted her head to the side.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," He said seriously, gesturing in the general direction for her to go. "Now if you would please…" Peter pressed a gentle hand to the small of her back and pushed the reluctant girl along.

They kept walking, Anne's feet dragging and his amusement growing with every step, across the Great Hall, out of the palace walls, out of the gardens, until the two reached the edge of a wood.

"Peter, if this turns out to be some joke, you'd best say goodbye to your siblings now," Anne warned. "I can't guarantee I can restrain my anger long enough for you to bid them farewell later." He laughed aloud at her death glare.

"What happened to the good mood?"

"Sometimes that disappears after traipsing pointlessly throughout all of Cair Paravel for the better half of the morning," Anne muttered, although her traitor lips twitched slightly.

"My, you're awfully sarcastic today," Peter mimicked, his voice purposefully higher. She groaned, and slapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, that hurt!"

"Someone has to balance you out," Anne replied airily.

Peter rolled his eyes, and then began to fidget a bit, nervous like. "Anne, you're going to have to close your eyes from this point forward," He began. Seeing her raised eyebrows, he hurriedly continued. "It's a surprise. Of sorts. Something…planned. A…never mind. Just trust me. Close your eyes, please?"

She paused, just to see him squirm, and then shut her eyes.

And so he led her into the forest, her clinging desperately to his arm.

* * *

"Where is he?" Edmund asked urgently, shaking the nearest servant by his shoulder. "This is important. I need to know where he is!"

"I'm sorry, your highness, but I truly don't know where King Peter is!" The man squeaked timidly. "The last time I saw him was about twenty minutes ago—walking, headed outside, with Miss Elliott."

"Miss Elliot?" Edmund breathed incredulously.

"Yes, your highness!"

"Thank you for your help." Edmund released the man, a brooding look coming over his features.

"Yes, your highness!" With that, the servant bowed deeply and retreated to the kitchens.

* * *

"Where are we going, Peter?" Anne asked after a few minutes of silence. Curiosity had overcome her, and she simply had to know. He didn't respond—but she could feel him smiling.

"We're almost there," He said, sidestepping the question effectively. Suddenly he came to a stop, and she followed suit, still clutching his arm fiercely.

"What?" She hissed. This silence was unnerving. "What's going on?"

"You can let go of me and open your eyes, now, Anne," Peter said wryly. As she did so, he began to rub the red spot where she had gripped him, willing the blood flow to come back.

Anne gasped. In front of her, sprawling across a small clearing in the forest, was a feast. A littered assortment of picnic baskets lay in the middle of the red and white checkered tablecloth, and food of all kinds were spread from corner to corner. Desserts, main meals, drinks, salads—it must have been a huge task to arrange.

"Surprise," A very familiar voice chirped from the far corner. Anne tore her eyes away from the massive amount of food to see Lucy and Susan, looking very amused.

"We thought we should give you a celebration," Susan said, smiling. "Congratulations for making it past a month, Anne."

A month! A month here in Narnia! Had time really passed so fast? How was her mother doing? Were things alright in real life? Evidently she looked disturbed, for Peter furrowed his brow.

"Is something wrong, Anne?"

"No," She said quickly, banishing all images of her mother from her head. Now was not the time. "Nothing. I'm fine. I'm…very grateful, though. I know I haven't been the best guest to have over, and you all bore with me. Thank you. So much."

"Nonsense," Lucy murmured, while Susan and Peter looked awkward at the sentimentality of the moment.

A pause.

"Well then," Anne began. "Shall we eat?" The others nodded eagerly.

About thirty minutes later she sincerely regretted her words. The food had been too delicious for simply one helping of everything—so she took two. After that, she decided to take a third of the things she _really really _liked. Come dessert, Anne was about to burst.

"I don't think I've ever consumed so much in one sitting," She moaned.

"It's good for you," Peter answered casually. "You're too skinny anyway."

That was when she flung a carrot stick at him. It hit him rather hard in the forehead before bouncing off. There was a long silence in which Susan looked torn between horrified and amused. And then Lucy giggled and chucked a grape at her brother.

In retaliation he tackled his little sister, tickling her, before turning to throw a handful of cherries at Anne. A full out food fight followed, only to be ended by Susan dumping a glass of water atop Anne's head. The expression on the girl's face was priceless.

The entire party of four was still laughing out loud when Edmund walked in on them. There was no mistaking the look of anger on his face. The laughter died out almost immediately. Edmund glared around at the mess, before resting his furious eyes on Peter.

"The Water Elves of Eyre want a council with you," He said brusquely. "Apparently their territory has been invaded by the Water Buffalomen. War, it seems, is eminent." He turned around and walked away.

The party was suffocated by a long, tense silence.

* * *

**A/N: Not my best. Not very good at all, actually. But I needed to introduce the next chapter and well…I updated anyway! Sorry for the long wait. Please read and review? Constructive crit is embraced. Please no obnoxious flames, though. : )**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: The house is built by C.S. Lewis. I am merely squatting in it temporarily.**

**A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers! I love each and every one of you, you have no idea how much :) . Anyway, read the A/N at the bottom of the chapter, please! And last but not least, angsty fluff ahead!**

She was waiting for him, sitting casually in his room, upon his bed, like it was an everyday habit, a bottle of what looked suspiciously like vodka in one hand. Her legs were dangling comfortably off the side of it, one swinging back and forth halfheartedly. Her gaze, glazed over slightly, was directed at the floor, and she was mumbling some incoherencies to herself. He stood there, watching silently, as she took another swig of the alcohol, straight from the bottle. It was already almost half empty.

"Hello, Anne," He said pleasantly at last, trying to mask the weariness in his voice. He had been in conferences and negotiations with the Water Elves for the entire night, and a good part of the early, forsaken hours of the morning. It was currently almost 3 a.m., and he would like nothing better than to go to sleep. "What are you still doing up?"

"Waiting for you," She said slowly, raising her eyes from the floor to meet his. He was shocked to see the flatness in her expression. The special vibrancy that was so very _Anne_ seemed to have dulled and faded.

"Well, I'm here," He answered, still pretending like she wasn't dead drunk. "Where'd you get that?" He gestured casually to the bottle of alcohol.

"Kitchens," She answered. "Want some?"

"I'm alright, thank you," He declined politely. "I think it might be best if you stopped drinking that, though." Carefully, so as not to set her off, he removed the bottle from her fingers.

She scowled slightly, but didn't prevent him.

"Sorry for ruining the picnic," He offered, removing his outermost robe so that he was just in a tunic. He remembered how the girls had wordlessly begun to clean up the picnic and to head inside after him that afternoon, after Edmund had come. She shrugged.

"Anne, you really should go back to your bed," He began awkwardly, well aware of how delicate a situation this was. The last thing he wanted the servants to know (and to gossip about) was a drunken Anne, inside his room at unearthly hours of the night.

"What did they say?" She asked abruptly, ignoring his previous suggestion. At his confused expression, she elaborated. "The Water Elves. What's going on, Peter?"

"Anne, it's late," Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I'll just explain everything to you later. Go back to bed."

"Peter, I'm drunk, not stupid," She drawled coldly. "Don't think you can distract me from the matter at hand."

"Anne, I said, _go back to bed_," Peter repeated firmly. "You are drunk. This is not wise."

"Well, if I know I'm drunk, then I'm obviously not drunk enough," Anne mused in amusement to herself. She laughed humorlessly. "Perhaps I ought to have more." She made a grab for the bottle, but Peter jerked it out of her reach. She lost her balance for a moment before righting herself.

"Give it here," She hissed, her eyes burning hollowly.

"Anne, leave." This new, cold girl was unnerving.

"Not until you tell me what's going to happen," She said fiercely.

"I can't deal with your stubbornness at this hour," Peter murmured, rubbing his temples, which were throbbing rather painfully.

"Just fucking tell me, Peter," She said quietly. There was a silence, in which he sighed aloud.

"We're joining them against the Buffalomen in war," Peter said after a few minutes. He looked at the girl perched so complacently on the edge of his seat. She nodded so calmly it was almost frightening. Weren't drunks supposed to raving mad and wild? He actually might prefer that.

"That's what I thought," She murmured quite thoughtfully. Peter was thoroughly disturbed by her demeanor. "Just needed some confirmation." She raised her eyes to look at him. "Are you planning on fighting?" She quickly looked away, down, trying to mask the thrill of fear that sprinted through her veins.

"What kind of King would I be otherwise?" He answered wryly. Her heart seemed to stop. "Of course I'm going."

Her head snapped upwards, and suddenly emotion—worry, panic—flooded her face.

"Don't." She said.

"What?" He was floored. She had gone through far too many disquieting mood swings already, he felt drained just trying to keep up. "Don't what?"

"Don't go." She repeated. "Please." If he didn't know better, he would say she was begging.

"Anne, what is going on here?" He asked, thoroughly confused.

"You don't understand, Peter," She said in a rush, feverish and urgent. She stood up unsteadily and gripped his arm tightly, her knuckles turning white. "You've grown up in Narnia all your life, you don't _get _it."

"Get what?"

"War," She whispered. "It destroys everything, Peter. Don't go." He looked at her incredulously, and she obviously mistook his expression for disbelief.

"You've got to believe me, Peter," She said, her hold, if possible, tightening. "It tears things apart, steals things from you, and no matter how much time passes, they won't mend. Some things don't mend with time, Peter." Her bottom lip was trembling now, and she bit it temptingly in a way that made him suddenly realize how close they were.

"Anne…" He began, quickly extricating himself from her grasp.

"No, Peter, you listen to me," She continued harshly. Her voice had risen in volume and insistence. Her eyes were blazing again through the veil of not shed tears. "Don't go."

"I'm going to, Anne," He said firmly. "I have to."

"_Don't_." She pleaded.

"I am."

There was a silence, in which her expression changed from urgency to shock to horror to anger.

"Fine," She snapped suddenly, and the wild, raving rage that he had previously associated with drunks came over her face. "Don't listen to my advice. Don't pay attention to what I say. Don't blame me when your fucking life comes crashing down around you, though."

"Anne, don't use that language," He admonished.

"Don't tell me what to do," She said, her voice rising higher in volume and pitch. "You're such a selfish bastard, Peter."

He was flabbergasted, stung, and way too tired to deal with her.

"Selfish?" He gaped. "Me? I only have the good of the kingdom at heart!"

"At the price of what, Peter?" She demanded angrily, and he realized quite suddenly that she really was very pretty when mad—fiery. He quickly pushed the inappropriate thoughts from his head, blaming the temporary insanity on the late hours. "At the price of heartbreak from your loved ones? Think about _them _for a moment. Do you know what Lucy would go through if…what about Susan? What about…what about _me_?"

"Anne…" He began wearily. "I have to."

"You're my _friend_, Peter," Anne said. "I'm asking you, as a friend, not to go."

There was a silence, in which he couldn't meet her gaze. She didn't even need to hear him speak to know his answer.

"Never mind," She said coldly, spinning around on her heel. "Do whatever the hell you want, Peter. Mess up your fucking life. Just don't expect me to talk to you while you do it."

She made to storm out of the room, but being rather terribly drunk (it was a _large _bottle of vodka, after all), stumbled and fell into his arms, where he caught her and supported her back to her feet. She flushed—Anne never flushed—knowing full well the effect was ruined.

"Shit!" She screamed suddenly, jerking out of his arms and wobbling dangerously. He grabbed at her. "Let me go, Peter."

"You're going to pass out on the floor if you try to get back to your rooms in this state," He murmured. His soft tone only seemed to infuriate her more.

"I can make it," She said proudly, raising her chin slightly in the air.

"No, you really can't," He sighed. "Just…ah, hell. Just stay the night, alright, Anne?"

"No."  
He misinterpreted her expression for fear, and rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to touch you or hurt you, Anne."

"It's not that."

A pause, in which he waited for an answer.

"I'm not talking to you," She whispered stubbornly. "Because you're just going to break my heart too. Like them. I won't get attached." Her eyes were shining with unshed tears, and he felt a strong stab of concern course through him.

"I'm not going to get hurt, Anne," He said quietly. "I promise."

"But you can't," She said, and her eyes were burning, flaming, pleading, so brightly. "You can't promise things like that. You can try and you can say it, but it's the enemy that controls that. You can't, Peter. Please don't. "

He pulled her into his arms, and held her gingerly against his chest to muffle her already silent sobs. She cried into his shoulder for a good five minutes, in which her body heaved brokenly with sobs, and she occasionally sniffled. He really had no idea what to do, but patted her back gently, smoothed back her hair from her flushed face, and made soothing sounds in her ear.

Finally she pulled back, her eyes awfully red.

"You must think I'm an idiot." She muttered resentfully, almost bitter, while swiping at her face in an attempt to rid it of tears. "An emotional, paranoid idiot."

"Nah," He murmured, holding both her hands in his and gently tracing small circles on the back of them. "I think you're amazing, Anne. You're just looking out for your friends. It's called caring." He felt a sharp jab of something in his stomach at the word friends, but brushed that aside too.

She smiled weakly up at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat or two. Clearing his throat so as to rid it of the lump that had just formed, he motioned at the bed.

"You can go to sleep there. I'll just…go find another room, I guess." He shoved his hands into his pockets awkwardly and made to head out, but stopped when he heard her voice.

"Peter?" She called softly. He turned around, an eyebrow raised. She shifted a bit in the blankets, nervous like, before asking: "Could you stay with me? Just for tonight?"

He bit his lip, thinking hard. This really was against his better judgment. After all those weird moments tonight, at this late hour, being this tired…but she was looking at him hopefully, pitifully, her eyes broken and sad.

"Alright."

And so they drifted off to sleep together, under the covers, ginger and tentative and finding warmth in the comfort of the other person. Just before he fell asleep, he noticed the path of her tears was still clear upon her face. In that moment, Peter made up his mind to find out, and to fix, exactly what was troubling the free spirit sleeping beside him.

**A/N: Egh. That just about sums it up—definitely not my favorite chapter. I've made up my mind for something else, though. I hate doing this, but I just sometimes feel like no one's reading my story…and then that kind of makes it pointless, because if no one's reading or no one's reviewing or no one's commenting on my mistakes, I can't improve. SO, unless I get five reviews at LEAST per chapter…I won't update. **

**I'm sorry. That sounds terrible, but I really do need constructive crit. So yeah. OH, and the more the reviews, the faster the update!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: His house. I squat.**

**A/N: Ermm…you all probably truly and completely hate me, don't you? I swore I would update soon, and…I didn't. Even though you guys reviewed over five times. And I said I would. There are two reasons why, so please, let me get through them before you shoot. A. I burned my fingers really, _really _badly trying to cook and had blisters and couldn't type for a week. B. I had AP testing, and that meant many sleepless nights full of cramming. So fanfiction was a bit low on my list of priorities. **

**But I still apologize profusely. I'm so, so sorry. You all rock and I failed you. Please forgive me?

* * *

No matter how many times she had gotten drunk, she would never get used to the consequential hangover. After the first one (which had been terrible), she had hoped that the body would develop a sort of numbness to this sort of thing over time. Not true. This last one was as bad as (if not worse than) the first. **

She awoke with a moan, silently cursing the sun for being _quite _so bright and shining _perfectly _into her eyes. A throbbing headache and a pounding inside her head and eardrums greeted her. Clutching at the pain in hopes of easing it (it didn't work), Anne rolled over, groping for her sheets so she could bury her head inside, where the blasted sunlight couldn't hurt it.

And hit Peter Pevensie square in the chest.

She sat up in alarm, backing as far away from him as she could manage. He was slowly awakening as well, rubbing at his eyes and blinking them blearily. He yawned, and then cracked a soft smile at her.

Surreal could not even _begin _to describe the situation.

"Morning." He said wryly, reaching up to try to tame his unruly hair. He only succeeded in messing it up more. He sat up too, so that he and Anne were on the same level. "Did you sleep alright?" It was amazing how casual his voice was, for there was no time for pointless exchanges of courtesy! More urgent matters were at hand.

"Did we have sex?" She asked bluntly, keenly aware that she was in his bed, his shirt was slightly more unbuttoned than necessary, and that she was still in yesterday's clothes. She _felt _alright, though—nothing like what the other girls described the morning after like. Her pounding head aside, that is. "Please say no."

"What a question," he answered, biting back a grin. "Bit too early for that sort of straightforwardness, no?" Seeing her serious glare, he rolled his eyes.

"Honestly, Anne, do you really have that low of an opinion of me? Of course we didn't." She relaxed only slightly.

"Then what happened?" She demanded suspiciously.

He stopped mid yawn. "You don't remember?" Mild surprise and curiosity.

"No, Peter, I'm asking you because I have a _perfect _recollection," Anne shot back scathingly. "Of course I don't remember. Generally getting drunk does that to you."

He stifled another smile at her terrible mood—or was it amusement at how adorably mussed her hair and dress looked?

"Well," he said, playing with the hem of his sheet as he talked, pulling a stray thread out. "I came back from a conference with the Elves of Eyre yesterday night, to find you waiting for me here, bottle of vodka in hand. And…" His brow furrowed, then uncreased as he continued easily. "Well, you were so drunk that I thought you might pass out in the hallway on the way back to your room, so I let you stay the night, and you were quite insistent upon my presence…"

She blushed prettily, and he felt some warm flame spread in his general chest region.

"Sorry about that," she murmured, avoiding his eyes. "I know I get awfully unfriendly when I'm drunk."

"Not a problem," Peter said. He made sure not to look at her, for he was quite certain the girl was embarrassed enough as it was."

"Why was I in your room to begin with?" Anne asked keenly. He flinched—and then hit himself mentally for the mistake.

"It wasn't anything big," Peter said casually, and then hurriedly changed the subject. "Did you sleep well though?"

A pause. She was mulling it over, and slowly the memories were creeping back.

"Anne?" He was desperate now, to distract her. Too late.

"I told you not to go to the war, didn't I?" She said slowly, thoughtfully. He winced slightly—just enough to confirm her theory. "And you ignored me." This was a statement, not a question.

"Not ignored," he interrupted. "I listened to everything you said, but I've got to put duty as my first priority. And duty calls me to lead my people into war."

She stared at him, not bothering to hide her astonishment.

"First priority?" She said wondrously. "Above life? Above happiness, above your family and your friends?"

Another pause—a long one—before he nodded firmly. "I accepted this responsibility to serve my country before all else when I became king." His voice was clear and strong and decided, and despite his tousled hair and the tint of sadness in his declaration, Anne did not think she had ever seen someone so regal and majestic before. The beauty of this boy-man took her breath away.

At long last, she shook her head slightly. "I don't understand it."

"You wouldn't," he said softly, and the kingliness faded. In its place was just Peter; friend and almost brother. Then Anne registered what he had just said and was affronted. Seeing her offended look, he quickly continued. "It's not meant to be an insult, Anne. You just love life and the people close to you so much that you wouldn't put anything above them. You can't bear to see them in pain. I used to be like that, until I came here. I suppose you just haven't found a cause strong enough, something that you believe in so resolutely."

"I don't think I ever will, either," she said, laughing a little.

"Yes, you will," he said comfortably, leaning back into the pillows and folding his arms behind his head. "I'm sure you will." He lapsed into silence, humming a melody slightly under his breath, while she fidgeted, debating within herself. She sucked in a breath and then—

"Why do you believe in me so much?"

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I mean, I'm not a good person," she continued. Now that she had worked up the steam and courage to ask, she wouldn't stop until it was all out. "I'm selfish and bad tempered and I think I might have a multiple personality disorder. I've done things that I'm ashamed about. I've—"

"You don't have to elaborate," Peter replied simply, cutting her off while still reclining easily. "Some things I don't need to know."

"So you're saying you don't even care if I've done bad things?" She interrupted, standing up now with her hands on hips, incensed. "Or that you don't want to hear the things I've done because it might _taint your purity_?"

"That's not what I'm saying." His eyes and voice were serious, and he rolled over to face her. "Of course I care and of course I wish you hadn't done whatever you've done. And as to the second part, don't be ridiculous, Anne. Sometimes you're utterly absurd. What I _am _saying, however, is that I think you're a good person deep down. I'm saying that it's not so important that I know _what _you did as _why _you did it. I want to know what's wrong, Anne, and until you tell me, I withhold all judgment on your actions."

"But I'm nowhere near perfect," Anne murmured, subdued. "I'm not even close to good."

"I beg to differ," Peter answered. "Besides, no one's perfect."

"But—"

"Let's go find that hangover remedy, alright?" Peter interrupted, swinging himself off the bed. There was a pause, in which she just stood there and stared at him. Then at last he rolled his eyes and made shooing motions with his hands. "I have to change, Anne, and although you may have stayed the night, I'd rather you not stay to watch me change clothes, too."

She had the decency to flush again and scurry out of the room. He allowed himself a brief grin before switching into a clean set of robes in a businesslike manner. She found her head filled with words of acceptance from a magnificent young man who radiated hope.

* * *

They carefully avoided the topic of the war over the next two to three weeks, although that became increasingly difficult as advisors would interrupt their conversations with 'urgent news from the Elves of Eyre.' War, it seemed, was coming much faster than either Peter of Anne anticipated. 

And so it was no real surprise, truly, when Peter knocked on the door of Anne's bedroom and stepped gingerly inside after she gave him the all clear. He had now progressed to entering her bedroom—but only after knocking, and even then he walked so carefully and was clearly not at ease.

She had been reading a book recommended by Susan in her bed, and looked up to see him framed in the doorway.

"Hello," She smiled. It faded quickly when she saw the look on his face.

"Hello." He replied quietly.

"When?" She demanded. He didn't need to ask her to clarify.

"Two days," he replied. "The Buffalomen refused all attempts to negotiate and the Elves are pressing now more than ever for our assistance. We signed the accord with the Elves today. As soon as our army can mobilize, we'll be leaving."

"And that's in two days."

"Yes."

A silence. She sighed and closed her book, knowing she would not be able to focus anymore.

"Come sit," she said at long last, patting the spot next to her on the bed. Peter shifted uncomfortably, and she rolled her eyes at his overzealous chivalry. "I swear I'm not going to sexually attack you or anything of the sort."

He cracked a smile and joined her, each movement still measured and cautious. She bit her lip to keep from laughing—he was so _jumpy_.

"How long will the war be?" She asked.

He shrugged. "It all depends on the extent the Buffalomen are willing to fight for the territory. Could be weeks. Could be months. Could be a year or more. But we'll be back as soon as we can." She shivered suddenly, and he frowned. "Are you cold?"

"No," she said softly, and her eyes slowly dimmed. "You just reminded me of something my father said to me once."

"What'd he say to you?" Peter prompted gently. This was delicate ground. Anne had avoided all conversations involving her family, no matter how persistent he was in questioning her. When her eyes dimmed like that and her family was involved, he had to tread lightly. His heart, however, did a little cheer inside his chest. Perhaps now she'd open up her problems to him!

"He said…I asked him how long he'd be gone. He said the same thing you did. Weeks. Months. Years. He wasn't sure. But he said he'd be back as soon as he could, too. As soon as possible. Those were his words."

Peter didn't quite know how to respond, but luckily she kept talking, staring off into space as she lost herself in memories.

"He said that he'd miss his little dreamer—that was his nickname for me—terribly and that nothing, not even a thousand Germans armed with guns, could keep him from returning to me and my mom as soon as humanly possible. I wrote a poem for his return, you know. Something to welcome him back."

"What'd it say?" Peter asked.

"I forget," Anne whispered, and she drew her knees up to her chin and hugged them to her chest. "I ripped it up after…"

"After?"

"Nothing." She shook her head a little as if to clear it, and the fog in her eyes evaporated. "So two days, huh?"

"Yeah, two days." Peter tried to disguise the disappointment in his voice. He had been so _close_…

"The castle's going to be so empty without you," She murmured, half to herself.

"So what, you're going to miss me?" He teased, and yet a part of him (a part that he denied existed—the same part that felt like grinning whenever she blushed or laughed, the same part that noticed how thick and rich her hair was and how she had seven freckles exactly and how her eyes shone brilliantly when smiling) hoped it was true.

"I never said empty was a bad thing," She said, winking. He laughed lightly, his shoulders shaking up and down with mirth. A pause, while he finished laughing.

"Susan and Edmund are going, aren't they?" She said abruptly. He nodded warily.

"Lucy's staying to take care of the kingdom while we're gone, but yes, Susan and Edmund will be coming."

"Can I come?"

He had known it would happen. Known she would ask. She was too inquisitive, too curious and prying by nature, not to have. He was only surprised it came this late. And so he drew in a deep breath to reply.

"No."

She looked at him, affronted. "Why not?"

"Because you're Anne."

"What sort of a reason is that!" He sighed inwardly. This was going to be uglier than he thought.

"It's true. You obviously have some sort of past psychological trauma dealing with wars, and I don't want to expose you to them any more than I have to."

"I don't need you to protect me, Peter. I'm not so weak that I can't fight."

"I'm not saying that you're weak."

"You implied it."

"I did not imply that you are weak! I'm simply stating the fact that you have never had any military experience before, and that, plus your past psychological trauma dealing with wars added together, renders you pretty much useless."

"What, so now I'm useless?"

"Well, considering your past psychological trauma dealing with—"

"Stop saying that."

"What?"

"Past psychological traumas. I don't like it."

"Alright. But still, no."

"I could learn how to fight and gain military experience. I'm not stupid. I could pick it up quickly. And as to the war problem that I've had, that's my issue. I'll deal with it. I want to come."

"Still, no." He said resolutely. She was livid now.

"Give me a good reason," she demanded, temper flaring. "One good reason and I'll listen to you."

A pause, and suddenly his face, set and determined before, softened.

"Because I don't want to see you hurt," he answered throatily.

Suddenly she found it was hard to breath and the world was spinning and it was very hot and she realized how close they're sitting and how _alone _they were.

She seemed to have misplaced her voice. "Oh." She croaked at long last.

He reached out and gathered her wrists gently in his hands and held them there. Her pulse sped up. "I'm serious, Anne," He began, his voice low and almost pleading. "Please don't go."

She was floored, dumbstruck, too dizzy to do anything but nod. His hands were really very warm.

"Thank you." He released her and she could breathe regularly again.

"I'll stay, if you promise to do one thing for me." She said, now that thoughts flowed coherently again.

He looked wary. "Alright…"

"Just…be careful. Take care of yourself, Peter. I…I don't want to see you hurt either. Promise?" She cast her eyes downwards, too embarrassed to look him in the eye, so she doesn't catch the flush of pleasure that crept across his cheeks.

"Okay. I promise."

"Good," she said. "And if you break that promise, I will be really, really mad at you, okay?" A grin from both of them.

"Okay."

Later, after a nice long conversation sticking to safe, comfortable topics, Peter stepped out of her bedroom and into the hall. He decided it might be necessary to lie down. He was feeling slightly feverish. Likewise, teh book lay forgotten on her bed as she tried to return her breathing to a regular, steady pace.

**A/N: FLUFFY! YAY! UPDATE! YAY!**

**P.S. I raised the rating to T because of language last chapter. Sorry if that offended anyone. I swear she won't drop as many bad words from now onwards. Maybe one more chapter about like that. But that comes later anyway. I thought it fit a Drunk!Anne, and I'm sticking to that choice.**

**P.P.S. I swear I will be faster in updating. And thanks to Jillie for the grammar/quotation correction and to Katy for just being all around amazing :). **

**P.P.P.S. Notice how this chapter is ESPECIALLY long to make up for the wait? **

**So, that means...please review? I won't update until there's five, no matter how controversial the decision may be. **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: REVIEWERS! I love you guys. Honestly, truly, adore every single one of you to bits. SO here's the update! Sorry that it's late, but real life is hectic. My teachers have decided that now would be a _perfect _time to dump every single project/essay imaginable upon our shoulders, seeing as how we only have three weeks left of class and of _course _that's not what every single other teacher will be doing. I have four projects/essays due on June 1st and only seven classes too.**

**  
Disclaimer: As so nicely pointed out by AreYouTuggin'MaSquirrel (speaking of which, your name cracks me up…I can so picture someone using it in a conversation to express extreme disbelief…anyway…), I won't own this house unless I squat here for eleven and a half more years. Which I don't plan on doing, by the way. **

**WARNING: This chapter wasn't my favorite to write. It was definitely a transition chapter and not quite so action packed, so please review because I'm quite self conscious about it and was debating deleting it and then re-writing it, but decided that I had already made you all wait long enough…so I went ahead and posted. But I'm still unsure and would love love LOVE your opinions and inputs. As always, constructive crit adored…obnoxious flames not so much.

* * *

**

The good bye had been anticlimactic, truth be told. Before he had gotten all dressed up in shining armor with magnificent royal décor, before he mounted atop a powerful white horse, before he led the army out of the castle, he came to bid her farewell. Just kind of knocked (he always knocked, always in the same manner. Three soft, hesitant taps, really) and poked his head in, looking awkward, like he always did when he entered her room. It was endlessly amusing, and, as grudgingly as she admitted this to her inner self, quite a bit endearing. Chivalry at its finest.

"Hi." He said.

"Hey."

He shuffled his feet audibly and shifted his stance.

"Well…we're leaving today." He offered.

She bit her lip to hide a laugh and a sarcastic retort that was just itching to emerge from her lips. _No, really?_ She settled for mental mockery—not quite as satisfying, but better than nothing. Outwardly she opted for a silence, raising a brow. Perhaps sarcasm would've been better; the atmosphere was so tentative it could use some lightening up.

"And I guess I'm just here to say good bye," He continued. _Once again, obvious._

"Okay." Her lips said.

"Take care of yourself." He finished, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, his cheeks turning slightly pink. She didn't notice—she was determinedly staring at the floor, the wall, her book—anything but his eyes.

"You too. Bye."

And so he closed the door and left.

She went to the ceremony, of course—the elaborately fancy one in which all those who were staying gathered to send off their men. But this Peter was a different one than the one she spent hours with, laughing and talking. He sat strong and straight, and while she had always known that he was adorably attractive, this Peter had an unreachable, marble-like handsomeness. He smiled a lot at the people, but she wished he would laugh instead, just so she knew for sure that her Peter hadn't just been a dream. Anne didn't consider this parting their _actual _farewell, of course.

And so she hit herself mentally later for not dragging out their goodbye conversation more. For not saying more interesting things, for not replying in a wittier tone. After all, she would not see him for the next week—month—maybe even year.

It seemed so…anticlimactic, for lack of a better word, after their deep talk when she woke up in his bed, and the following one two days ago, when he came into her room. When he had _implied_ that he might've cared for her, and she had implied the same. _What a letdown_, her brain mused.

Of course, he could've just meant that he cared for her as a sister. This was highly likely—it was _Peter_ after all, moralistic, sweet, and possibly immune to all hormones. Yes, this was probably the truth.

And so she rolled over on her bed, sighed, and picked up her book. As a refuge from the drama of real life, Theories on Machiavellian Principles beckoned.

* * *

Life crept by, as it often does when it has reached its peak of boredom. Anne honestly believed she had read through more books in this past week than in her entire lifetime. From novels to biographies to history textbooks, she had been through it all. And she was tired of it all, too. Her bedroom had become a living library—a glass of water, which she occasionally refilled according to her thirst, off to her right, and a stack of books on her left.

So it was quite a relief when Lucy came skipping into her room from 'queenly duties'. The youth had been very occupied for the past seven days, rearranging the kingdom so it would be best defended against any possible attacks (which were unlikely, but precautions were necessary) and so it would be best adjusted to the wartime economy and leadership. The people loved Lucy; Anne, despite her novelty to politics, could see this clearly. Of course, they loved all the Pevensies (_who didn't?_); but there was a special place in their heart for Lucy.

Peter was magnificent and righteous. Susan was practical, beautiful and extraordinarily intelligent. Edmund was just and fair. But Lucy…Lucy was _lovable_. Her smile was warm and inviting, her voice compelling and sweet, her very aura almost nauseatingly cute. She seemed to truly care about what you had to say, and her immense patience and appeal as a listener were huge reasons for her popularity. She was so approachable, so human. Yes; the people loved Lucy and Lucy loved them back.

"Hello," Anne greeted, sitting up and dropping the book to her side. She crossed her legs under her, cleared a space on her bed of books, and patted it. "Sit."

Lucy obliged willingly, plopping into place beside the older girl.

"How are you doing?" Anne asked with concern, for indeed, Lucy had lost some weight, and she looked a bit peaky.

"Tired," Lucy said, shrugging slightly. "There was a lot to get done."

"I believe you. I wouldn't fancy having your job."

"Oh, but the good parts more than make up for the bad," Lucy insisted earnestly. "You really can't judge on the past few days, Anne."

"Don't worry," Anne smiled lightheartedly. "My opinion doesn't really matter. It's not like I have a chance of becoming queen, anyway." She winked to show she was not bitter before reaching to take a sip of water from her glass. A pause; and then—

"Peter begs to differ," the girl murmured wickedly. Anne promptly inhaled half the water up her nose, choked, and spilled the rest upon her top. Lucy went into fits of laughter.

Finally, when Anne had stopped coughing, she turned to face the hysterical girl.

"What was that supposed to mean?" She demanded.

"Well…" Lucy stalled, choosing her words carefully. "You two just seem to be _awfully_ close recently."

"We're _friends_," Anne said exasperatedly. "Nothing more."

"If it helps you sleep at night," Lucy replied carelessly. It could not be clearer that she did not believe a word Anne had just said. And try as she might, Anne could not convince the younger girl otherwise. After ten minutes, Anne chose to give up, and the conversation turned to the war.

"The last we heard, they're doing really well," Lucy said. "They won the first skirmish. Apparently that gained them some land and they're currently pushing towards a fort that is vital to the supply lines of the Buffalomen."

"That's great news," Anne murmured.

"Oh, and they wrote back home," Lucy added, watching her friend brighten knowingly. "There's one for you, I think." She began to dig in her pocket for the letter.

She handed over the creased envelope a moment later, and Anne tore it open eagerly. Out fell a slightly torn sheet of paper, covered with black ink sprawled and scratched across the page. Anne read it quickly to herself.

_Dear Anne,_

_Just writing to let you know that all is well here. We're quite tired, but alive. The casualty count isn't high. None of those you know have been wounded seriously, so stop your worrying. And for heaven's sake get your nose out of your books. I know you're going to spend your time reading, and I must warn you it isn't healthy to stay cooped up for so long. Go outside a bit. Susan wants me to say she disagrees, and that it's perfectly fine to read all you want. She recommends Wuthering Heights if you haven't read it already. Sorry this is so short, but there isn't much time for writing. Hope to see you soon._

_Yours Truly,_

_Peter_

She couldn't help it. She laughed aloud at his line about reading. He honestly knew her too well. And it _had _been a while since she had read Wuthering Heights…

An hour later, Lucy left Anne's room rather regretfully, saying that she had to attend a meeting on in which they would decide if raising taxes to help pay for the wartime expenses was necessary. Anne bade the girl goodbye, and turned back to her stack of books and her new letter. It was going to be a long, long wait. She might as well settle in.

* * *

As the war picked up its pace, Anne found herself ditching her beloved novels (although she did breeze through the wonderfully dark, fascinatingly cruel world of Mr. Heathcliff twice according to Susan's advice) and assisting in what was collectively called "the war effort". The entire castle seemed to have something to do, some part to contribute. The servants bustled about with more urgency than normal, knowing that their efficiency would produce supplies to be sent to the soldiers faster. Lucy always had a haggard, wearied look about her, and she moved in a swift, mechanical manner. Anne only caught glimpses of her young friend during meals or in the hallway. She was too busy to visit now. The horses endured grueling distance runs willingly, for their speed might save lives. The infirmary had been transformed to a collection of hospital beds, and these filled up far too rapidly for Anne's liking. It seemed the war wasn't quite as successful as the first battle.

Anne was neither an economic genius nor any good at producing clothes, food, or other needed supplies. So she helped in the hospital, often staying overtime as the supply of nurses dwindled—more and more were needed at the field. She'd do menial labor, like mop up messes and bloody floors, or carry around supplies to wherever she was directed. Meaningless, simple work—but it took her mind off life and worries. Plus someone had to do it.

After about a month of this, Anne was promoted from the supply room and mess clean up duty to actually attending the victims of the war. Seeing as how she had no medical experience whatsoever, this was a clear indication that her help was desperately needed. She learned quickly, for despite her promotion, she was kept to relatively simple jobs. Cleaning wounds with a washcloth, disinfectant solution, and water, Anne also helped with gathering medical herbs and plants from outdoors.

She had one particular favorite elfin soldier who was suffering from quite a few ailments; among them a ghastly gash that ran from his forehead to his cheekbone that would probably leave a scar, a few broken ribs, and a leg that had been hit by an arrow. He had arrived, gasping, on a stretcher; he was clutching the wound, arrow still protruding from his (very bloody) thigh. She had nearly fainted. His name was Thandril, and he tried to jokingly flirt, saying that at least the view was nicer here in the hospital, even if his leg hurt a hell of a lot. Something in her chest shattered as she mustered up a laugh.

She washed out his wounds and helped him into a cot, biting her lip when he winced as she jostled him a bit. She hated herself for not being able to ease his pain. She hated herself a lot more, these days. Such petty things that had bothered her before seemed not to matter now, when human lives dangled on a feeble thread. He had reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her closer and telling her that she looked even prettier when he didn't have blood in his eyes. She almost lost it right then and burst out weeping. Somehow she managed to hold it in, and smiled warmly instead.

These men broke her heart, with their bravery and their suffering. Some would smile, tight lipped, as she asked (pointlessly—the answer was always 'alright', but they always lied) how they were doing. Some, like Thandril, would joke. Some were so far gone that they would simply moan, lost to this world and to coherent speech.

She saw death for the first time in the hospital. Up close and personal. She had been cleaning a young man's wounds—he was probably no older than twenty, twenty two—and he had been writhing in pain, making the job difficult. She had tried to talk to him soothingly, murmuring words of comfort, when he suddenly stopped struggling, gurgled, and laid still. She vomited thoroughly.

The hospital was almost quaint in the way it operated; there would be long stretches of relative tranquility, in which most nurses tended to the victims somewhat idly, and jobs were few and far between. Then a wave of the injured would flood the doors, apparently from some battle in the outer world, and Anne's vision would be filled with blood, her ears with the painful moans, and all she could smell would be the rusty, salt like stench for what seemed like days on end, until she would tremble from exhaustion and her feet would ache from standing up so long and her hands ache and her head ache and her heart do the exact opposite—go numb from all the pain around her. Jobs would abound for about one to two weeks before things cooled down again.

She hated the long, silent stretches as much as the times of action. They jarred her mentally; she was always edgy, jumpy, and unsure of when the next gush would come.

She came to dread the hospital, dread waking up and walking down the corridors to that white, hellish room filled with the smell of antiseptics mixed with blood. The first few times she had thrown up. The first surge of soldiers had hit, some missing limbs, some with terrible stomach wounds (which meant rather more of guts than she'd like to see), and all screaming for help and spurting blood everywhere. The air filled with fear and pain and blood and sweat.

Anne had taken one horrified look at it all before running outside. There she vomited, emptied anything and everything she had eaten in the last six hours, from her stomach. When she was done, not only had she thrown up all food, but she had also rid herself of emotion, returning to the infirmary to attend to the wounded robotically, her movements swift and cold. She would cry for them later, when there wasn't work to be done. Anne found that no matter how many times she washed her hands, which she rubbed with soap and water until they were red and raw, they still stank with the smell of blood. Sometimes, her hands even felt naked when not covered with the thick, sticky substance. It sickened her.

When the day was over, when night had far past fallen, Anne would stumble back to her room, exhausted, and throw herself on her bed and weep. Their screams always haunted her dreams. She had very little sleep, for whenever she closed her eyes, nightmares greeted her.

After a while she ran out of tears, and found that the silent, body wracking kind of sobs often put her to sleep best. And so she cried them. Not just for the soldiers, but also because it had been over six months, and she had almost forgotten what Peter sounded like. Just like how she had forgotten what her brother sounded like, and only had a faint echo of her father's deep, rumbling laugh. In this hellhole of a world, it seemed like her earlier days were just dreams; pleasant memories her mind came up with to keep away insanity.

Days passed so quickly now; hours melted together, weeks blended easily to become just one, long nightmare. She wasn't eating enough, wasn't sleeping enough; but who was? Sometimes the other nurses would look at her worryingly, or mention to her that she ought to take a break. But there was never time for a break anymore.

**A/N: Eh. Icky. Not too pleasant. I know I got kind of graphic and morbid in here…and that not much stuff happened…but please review regardless? Tell me if I captured the hopelessness, the despair of war right. That's what I was after; Anne kind of gets a taste of the real world and realizes that it's very, very ugly. Please review?**

**  
I swear I will update faster. The next chapter WILL be exciting (and we'll see more of Thandril (who will be semi-important in this story)) and Edmund! So please stay tuned. **

**And review! Remember, at least five :) **

**P.S. Notice how loonnngggg this chapter was? Pushing 3,000 words. That's pretty much a record for me. **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Erhem. I'm late, yes, I know. And you all are COMPLETELY WONDERFUL, I am well aware. But it was _exam time_. And I had _so much to do_. Don't worry, it's SUMMERRRRR now and I will have plenty of time to update. So updates will no longer be few and far between :). **

**MORE IMPORTANT A/N: Not much action in this one, but more development :). Don't shoot me if you don't like it, please. I realize it might not be the most errrm…_popular _chapter. Please read and review!**

**Disclaimer: Eleven years and three months more… (meaning it is not and will never be mine).**

"That's going to leave a scar," she said quietly, motioning at the gash upon his face before bandaging it up again. She bent to the side and began opening a new roll of cloth bandages. It was time to redress his wounds.

Thandril grinned cheekily up at Anne and winked. "That's alright. I hear women like scars. They find them sexy."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Do you ever have anything _other _than females on your mind?'

It was another one of those quiet peaceful periods in the hospital, the calm before the storm that filled Anne with anxiety and tension. And so she was attempting to distract herself by conversing with Thandril, whose health had improved significantly over the past few months. He would be ready to leave the infirmary in a matter of weeks, if not days. He was quite the character, always ready with some joke or flirty comment.

"Not when you're around, milady." Quite the character, indeed.

They had become fast friends over the past two months since he was admitted to the hospital, as she was assigned to tend to his section of the room. She liked his light, teasing manner. It took her mind off darker things.

"You're simply suffering from a Florence Nightingale Syndrome," Anne said absently, lifting his shirt to peel off the old bandage. "Once you're out of this hospital, you'll look back and think: 'Wow, what did I see in _her_?"

He laughed at this one. "I guarantee I'm not. I'll look back and think: 'Wow, Elle looks even prettier when I'm not bleeding and lying down on the bed in great amounts of pain.'"

Elle was his nickname of sorts for her—he started off by calling her by her surname, Elliott. It was only a matter of days before he had it shortened.

"Are you in great amounts of pain?" She asked, concerned.

"Not when you're around, milady." _Typical male_.

"Stop flirting for a second and tell me where it hurts."

He paused and looked at her serious face. Then, slowly, he raised his hands to his chest region and put them over his heart. "Right here," he declared solemnly.

"Oh, sod off." She bit back a smile.

"You break my heart, milady, with your disbelief. It wounds me deeply to think that you don't find my affections for you genuine."

She snorted in a distinctly unladylike manner and shifted the topic to the war. "When do you think the war will end, Thandril?"

"I'm not quite sure," Thandril answered, dropping all mockery. "From what the reports say and the occasional letters that I get, we're winning. The troops have been pushing the enemy further and further back away from the disputed territory. Apparently Lieutenant James thinks they might agree to a treaty soon, but I haven't heard that from anyone else. They're still fighting hard. It's just not a pretty war."

"No wars are pretty," she murmured, dabbing at the wound on his side. She washed off the dried blood first before going in to clean the wound itself. He let out a little hiss of pain as she pressed a little too hard.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she watched him bite his lip. "I know it stings, but it's necessary to get rid of infection. I'll be done in a second, I promise."

When she finished, he exhaled slightly, and his tense body relaxed. She patted the new cloth bandage on gingerly, smiling at him.

"I'm done."

"You should smile more often," he said unexpectedly, his tone serious. She quirked an eyebrow at him. "You look even prettier when you smile."

"Why thank you," she answered absently, moving his shirt back into place and covering him up.

"I should be thanking _you_, Ellie," he replied. "You've been a lifesaver."

"It's my duty," Anne murmured. "But you're very welcome." She began to pack up the materials in her bag.

"You know what?" Thandril pondered aloud. "I think that, in order to show you exactly how appreciative I am, I ought to take you out to dinner when I'm out of the hospital."

She looked up promptly, both eyebrows raised. "Is that your twisted way of asking me out on a date?"

"It depends on what your answer is," he said, smiling. "If you agree, of course. If you don't…well, do you prefer me to ask it in a more orthodox fashion?"

She rolled her eyes. With Thandril, nothing was orthodox. He took her silence as a yes.

"Well then. Anne Elliott, would you be willing to grace my unworthy being with your lovely presence for a romantic candlelight dinner and perhaps a stroll under the moonlit beach when I exit this hospital? I can bring you a dozen red roses if this does not sound perfect enough."

She fought back a smile and failed miserably. "We'll see. Let's just focus on getting you out of the hospital first, alright?"

"So that's a no?" He looked so adorably crestfallen that she almost burst out laughing.

"That's a maybe."

He grinned cheekily. "I knew you couldn't resist my charms, Elle."

She laughed aloud, and, shaking her head, got up to leave his bedside.

* * *

She was outside in the fields two weeks later, collecting various herbs for medicinal purposes, when a light tap on her shoulder caused her to spin around in surprise. Two warm, mischievously light hazel eyes greeted her, along with a very familiar grin.

"Hello, Elliott," he said pleasantly.

"Thandril!" She cried happily, dropping her basket immediately to envelope him in a hug. "Congratulations on a full recovery."

"Thank you, milady. I couldn't have done it without you."

She backed up from the hug, looking up at him exaggeratedly. "I didn't know you were so _tall_."

And indeed he was tall—she had never realized this before, but aside from being tall, Thandril was also quite handsome. Now that he didn't have white gauze covering half his face and the ghastly swollen gash had faded, she could see that he had a long, straight nose and aristocratic features. She took a moment to take in his long, leanly muscled form. High cheekbones, an unruly mop of deep black curls, and a lopsided smile with one dimple on the left side completed the picture. He was the image of boyishness, mirth and good humor.

"I didn't know you were so _short_," he replied with a smirk. She rolled her eyes and bent to pick up her medicine basket—only to be intercepted midway by her companion.

"I'll hold that, milady. Chivalry isn't dead yet."

"Thank you, kind sir." She dumped the basket unceremoniously into his hands and continued on her way, swishing her skirts occasionally as she ran her finger down the list of herbs she had. Next up was Yualta spruceberries, a very useful sort of red fruit that produced an anesthetic, pain relieving juice when squeezed. It made an excellent paste to apply to wounds. She quickly found a bush full, and, carefully avoiding all prickly spines, began to pick the berries absently.

"So why haven't you been in the hospital for the past few days?" Thandril asked, in what he obviously hoped was a casual manner.

"Oh, I've been on field duty," she replied vaguely. "We're running low on supplies."

"Mmmm."

"Yes."

A pause, in which he debated within himself whether he should say it or not.

"I've missed you." He said at long last, his voice quiet and serious. She flicked her eyes up to his and flushed slightly at the look he was giving her. He couldn't help but notice how very endearingly adorable she looked when she blushed. A pause, in which she watched (with wicked delight) as he shifted from foot to foot nervously, unsure of whether or not she would return the feeling.

"I suppose I have, too. I mean, you're better company than the grass," she murmured thoughtfully at long last, in an attempt to lighten the conversation. "On your good days, at least. A bit more entertaining."

He took the bait. "A _bit_? I think you meant 'Oh Thandril, I've missed you too—you and your dashing good looks and brilliant charm and amazing sense of humor.' Well, I don't blame you, milady. I would've missed me too if I were you."

"Are you _flirting_ with yourself?" She asked in mild interest.

"Impressive, no?"

She tried and failed to stop her laughter.

"Oh gods, do you have to _laugh_ pretty too?" He sighed, closing his eyes in mock annoyance.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She said indignantly.

"That means, my dear Elle, that everything about you is disgustingly attractive. I find myself sickened by how appealing you are."

"Twisted as that was, I'll take it as a compliment." She returned her eyes to the task at hand, maneuvering carefully around the prickles.

"You ought to. It was meant as one. Do you need help with that, Elliott?" He offered

"Sure."

And so the two spent their afternoon in the pretty sunny day, laughing (on Anne's part) and joking (on Thandril's part) and thoroughly enjoying life. Anne couldn't help but think how much _lighter _the world seemed when Thandril was around.

He was currently telling a story about his family.

"So I look down at the dress shoes my mother's offering me, and they're _two sizes too small_. I look back up, and promptly refuse to put my feet within five feet of those death traps. But my grandmother intervenes, and she says to me, in this creaky sort of voice—" And here he imitated her voice, lowering and slowing it deliberately in a very good likeness of an old lady.

"'Thandril, my boy,' she said, 'You're overlooking something very important. These shoes are _magic _shoes.' Well, being so young, I was instantly captivated. 'These shoes,' she said, 'will bring you anywhere you want if you just think of that place very, very hard and tap them together three times.' So of course I wore them, and I went about cringing the entire funeral. I actually overheard one aunt whisper to a cousin about my age: 'Remember, Mya, how I always tell you not to pull faces? Well, there's someone who did it so much that his face got stuck that way. Do you want _that_ to happen to you, Mya? _Do_ you?' You should've seen the little girl shake her head. She was so horrified, I'm quite sure she didn't pull another face for the next five years."

Anne was smiling at him, well aware of how his eyes danced and how wildly he gesticulated and how passionately he told his story. Thandril was the unaware epitome of cuteness.

"And whenever I didn't think people were looking, I would gently tap my shoes together three times and wish to be at the lake with my friends, swimming and splashing. It didn't work the first time, or the second, or the third, fourth, fifth, and so on. I thought it was because I wasn't hitting them together hard enough. And so, being extremely frustrated, during the eulogy—you know, when everyone's dead silent and some people are crying and everyone's saying solemn, nice words about my grandpa—I untied my shoes, pulled them off, and then clapped them together three times, as hard as I could, in the air. My grandma says it was a good thing my grandpa was dead, because if he were still alive, he would've promptly died laughing. To this day some of my relatives treat me as if I'm mentally ill; you know, they speak really slow and smile a lot."

Anne was laughing now, full out gasping for breath as she pictured the scene. He watched her, amused. Finally she quieted and noticed his stare, blushing.

"You're adorable," he said at long last, smiling slightly.

"You're a flatterer," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"No, I mean it," he said seriously, reaching out and gently catching her wrist in between his fingers. Readjusting his grip, he gently pulled her hand into his. "I know I joke with you a lot, Elliott, but I really, truly do like you. Seriously." His eyes never leaving hers, he gently raised her hand and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the top of it. Despite the tenderness of the contact, his eyes were blazing. She had never seen anything so intense.

An hour and a half later, the two headed inside together amicably. At the door to the hospital, Thandril turned abruptly to face Anne.

"Hey Elliott," he said, swallowing nervously. She raised an eyebrow. It was very, very uncharacteristic of the confident young elf to be acting so fidgety. "I was wondering…remember that dinner date I asked you on?" Before she could reply, he plowed onwards. "Well, could you please consider it?"

She hesitated, and he continued. "I really do like you, Elle. Please say you'll consider it."

Looking into his pleading, warm brown eyes, she couldn't help but nod. A smile broke onto his face, lighting it up.

"Was that a yes I will or a yes I'll consider it?"

"The first one," she whispered shyly. "Just not anytime soon, because I'm sort of busy with the hospital stuff." He broke into a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"I understand. Well then," he said happily, running a hair through his dark curls. "I guess I'll see you around, Elle?"

"Yeah. See you." And so he was gone, leaving Anne supremely confused.

She liked Thandril. She really did. It was very hard not to, with his warm eyes and playful smile and easygoing personality. He was funny and sweet. But then why did she feel so _guilty _agreeing to this casual date?

She knew the answer. It laid in a young boy man, with indefinitely deep, infinitely blue eyes. Peter—her rock, her support, her comfort, her friend. Gods, life was so _confusing_.

**A/N: I know. You all are probably mad at me because it's such a crappy, fluffy chapter. I didn't like it much , either…but could you please leave a review giving me improvement ideas or just your opinion on it? NO flames, please. I repeat, NO flames. I don't mind you saying: "I didn't like it because I thought the dialogue was boring and (insert reason here)", but I don't want a comment saying: "It sucked. You suck. Go find a tall cliff and jump off it" or something equally rude. Constructive crit, please!  
**

**And now—five reviews? Please? I won't update until then! (and I will update faster and reply to reviewers now that I have time in life). **

**More importantly, I give all credit for that two lines: "Are you flirting with yourself?" "Impressive, no?" to MetroDweller, one of the most amazing authoresses of all fanfiction. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Standard, I suppose. I kind of give up trying to make it really creative. I tried the squatting thing, I tried old english...after awhile, psh no pretty much sums it up anyway. **

**  
A/N: This is the edited chapter 10, fixed and somewhat more believable :). Thanks to all those who caught my mistake and informed me of it!  
Again, thank you all so much for all the reviews! You all made me smile. Please keep doing it.

* * *

**

It turned out that Thandril didn't have to wait very long for the date. About two and a half weeks later, a dust covered but jubilant messenger came galloping into the castle. He jumped off the horse and paused to catch his breath before declaring: "The Buffalomen have surrendered! We sign an armistice, a ceasefire, with them, tomorrow at midday. Peace talks and treaty negotiations should be over by the week's end." His news was welcomed by a great cheer from all the people.

The end of the war meant the end of duties for Anne—and the head nurse, Elizabeth, urged Anne to take a break anyway.

"You're too skinny and pale, child," Elizabeth had scolded. "By all means, do take a break. Get out of here. Go on, shoo."

And so she exited the shower a good hour before her date with Thandril, humming slightly as she started to walk towards her bedroom. She knew exactly what dress she was going to wear.

On her way there, Lucy seemingly popped out of nowhere and approached Anne. The younger girl looked absolutely exhausted—her face was pale and drawn and haggard, her hair limp and the twinkle in her eyes absent.

"Lucy?" Anne asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes," the younger girl said, smiling slightly. "It's going very well. I'm quite glad that this war is over."

"You look tired," Anne noted.

"Mmm. Well, that's only to be expected. There was quite a lot to plan—we must have a welcoming ceremony and of course a victory party, too. Perhaps a ball."

"Oh. That _does _sound like a lot of work. Lucy, please, if only for my sake, don't over exhaust yourself. It's not healthy to work as much as you do."

"I'll relax after all this is over, Anne," Lucy replied, reaching into a bag as she talked. She pulled out a bundle of papers and held it out to Anne. "I'm so sorry this has been so late, but I just haven't had time to deliver them to you. I hope you can forgive me."

Anne frowned in confusion. What was going on?

"So here. They're late, but they're here. And I really, really wish I could stay and talk, but I've got to go. I have a meeting with my advisors in five minutes."

With that the Queen pressed the package, neatly tied with twine, into Anne's hands and left. Anne frowned again. It was very uncharacteristic for the responsible child to deliver things late. _Things must've been really, really busy,_ Anne thought. While she worried about Lucy, her hand idly untied the bundle, and out spilled envelopes—about a dozen of them—onto the floor. Shaken out of her reverie, she scrabbled to pick them up.

And then she realized, as she read each heading, they were letters for her. There were probably two or three from Susan, but the rest—the black scrawl at the top was achingly familiar. She walked swiftly into her room, barely aware of where she was going, and sat down heavily onto the bed. Her eager fingers tore open a random envelope, the first one she could grasp, and, with trembling fingers, she unfolded the parchment inside.

_Dear Anne,_ it read. _It's been a while since I've written, and I'm sorry about that. Things are going as well as can be expected in a war. Have you gone outside yet? I told you it would be good for you. And I know I'm not your mother or your father, but honestly—one of us has to have the common sense, and, most unfortunately, it seems to be me. _She closed her eyes briefly, reveling in the memories that suddenly flooded back to her. It seemed as if Peter was reading to her—she could hear the echoes of his voice, the amusement in his teasing, wry tone in the last line.

She ripped open the next one, scanning it hurriedly. _Dear Anne, someone entered my tent when I was changing today, and it reminded me of you. So I decided that no matter how busy I was, I would sit down and jot a little note to you. Lucy says she keeps forgetting to give you our letters, so I suppose I'll forgive you for not replying yet. I absolutely cannot wait until this war is over—you start to miss the little things. Like dry socks. What I wouldn't give for a pair of dry socks… _

She smiled briefly and picked up one of the letters from Susan. Her handwriting was much smoother—elegant, long, and beautiful. Meanwhile, she changed into more appropriate attire, pulling a dress out of the closet and putting it on. _Dearest Anne, I've missed you terribly in the last few months. War is such an ugly, ugly thing. Speaking of which, have you read War and Peace by Tolstoy recently? It's a brilliant work, and I'm just itching to discuss it with someone of intelligence. Peter is a nice boy, but he's a boy (and a brother at that!) and has no literary taste whatsoever. Just don't tell him I said that. I'm assuming you've finished Jane Eyre and hopefully A Farwell to Arms like I told you to in my previous letter? Don't you think that Hemingway, albeit talented, was a bit of a chauvinistic prick? I mean, honestly…women live for more than obedience to the male, you know_. Anne bit back a laugh. It was very much like Susan to write about books and feminism even amidst a battle and bloodshed.

There were so many letters—all addressed to her, filled with glimpses into the past. She could almost hear Peter's laugh and see Susan's smile if she concentrated very, very hard. It was like trying to make her ears twitch—the muscle existed somewhere, but it was nearly impossible to locate from lack of use.

"Elliot?"

She looked up abruptly, interrupted from her daydreams. Thandril was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, looking nervously about, well dressed and groomed. She quickly shoved the letters underneath her pillow and stood up, glancing at the clock. Had an hour really passed by?

"Sorry, Thandril," she said, flushing slightly.

"Oh, do you need some time alone?" He asked, confused. "I'm sorry, I should've knocked."

Knocked. Images suddenly flew to mind of the bickers she had with Peter over the issue of knocking before entering. She stifled a giggle, and quickly banished her thoughts of her friend and the guilt that rose in her chest. She was going to have fun today—to enjoy her dinner with a perfectly charming, nice, handsome young man. She would _not _feel guilty for 'betraying' something that didn't even exist. Peter had never hinted in the slightest that he was interested in her in _that way_, so she ought to feel completely free to date whoever she wanted. Yes. "No, I'm fine. I was apologizing for being late."

"No worries," he said, in that sort of agreeable, easygoing manner that characterized Thandril. "Did you get some letters?"

"Yes, from friends in the war," she replied. "I got so distracted and I lost sense of time. I meant to meet with you in the Great Hall—not to make you walk up here and find me."

"Don't apologize, Anne," he reprimanded, before changing the subject quickly. "You look nice today."

"Thank you," she replied, knowing (in a somewhat proud, vain way) that she did. She had chosen a pretty white dress with yellow and green flower decorations that complimented her hair and complexion. "You don't look too shabby yourself."

"I never look shabby." He said airily, and Anne rolled her eyes. Grinning, he bowed deeply, and produced (literally out of thin air) a bouquet of red roses, just as he promised. "Pretty flowers for a pretty lady."

"I would yell at you for that blatant act of flirting, but I'm rather partial to flowers, so I might let it slip this once."

"So you're saying if I give you more flowers, you'll allow me to flirt with you? Just for clarification's sake, of course."

"I don't think my disapproval would stop you in the first place, Thandril."

He paused the bantering to beam at her. "I always knew you were intelligent."

The two walked down to the village, sprawled in about a three mile radius in front of the castle. Companionable chatter filled the walk, making it rather enjoyable, all in all. Anne stopped in front of a little restaurant connected to a bar.

"How about here?" Anne asked.

Thandril shifted uncomfortably. "Actually…I'm not allowed within twenty feet of that restaurant or the adjoining bar."

"There's a story behind that, isn't there." It was an amused statement, not a question. Anne was quite curious.

"Yes." He said reluctantly.  
"Do tell."

He heaved a great, mournful sigh before beginning, just to show her what excruciating pain he would relive for her sake. "I won't go into the details, but it involved a party, alcohol, slight stripping, violence, hospitalization…errr…I think some broken furniture, destroyed upholstery, and injured prides. You know. The whole package. Oh, and I got banned from entrance."

"Slight stripping?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow. It was very, very difficult not to smile.

"Yes. The err…stripper…was interrupted by the aforementioned violence before anything risqué could be revealed."

"The stripper being you, of course."

"Of course." And here he had made a solemn little bow, elegant and straight-faced.

She had laughed aloud.

They finally agreed on Chatelaine, an elegant diner, despite Anne's misgivings. Anne stepped in and immediately felt out of place—her dress, although nice, was no match for the stylish evening gowns all the other ladies wore. Jewelry sparkled at her from all directions, and each inhabitant seemed more gorgeous than the last. They were resplendent—some not even human, but all graceful and beautiful. An orchestra played soft, classical music in the background. A few couples were dancing gracefully in the center of the room.

As if he could sense her nervousness, Thandril placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the door. "You look beautiful," he said quietly in her ear. "Don't worry, alright?"

They only stood for moments before a waiter came to seat them.

"Ah, Lord Thandril!" He cried, in a heavy accent that Anne couldn't quite place. "And what a pretty lady you are with. Hello, dear. My, but you are lovely! Seat for two, hmm?" Thandril simply nodded, at ease. He was obviously well known around here. Whispers and stares echoed about as they followed the waiter. Anne began to tense up again, an inferiority complex hitting her hard. She sat down gratefully, glad for the solid wood beneath her. Thandril, seeing her pale, ordered a glass of water first and reached across the table, holding her hand.

"What am I doing here?" She asked. "I don't belong here."

"You're here with me, Elle," he responded. "And don't say that. Those people are just staring because they're enthralled by your beauty."

She immediately snapped back to reality, and shot him a glare. "Flirt."

"Only with you, milady." He said, grinning.

That was the only mishap throughout the entire dinner. Anne quickly learned to ignore the stares and whispers and instead focused on her friend. Thandril was charming company—he told wildly hilarious stories about the foolish things he'd done in the past. She didn't even notice the wait until the food came, and ate with only half a mind (although the food was delicious), for she was listening to Thandril with most of it.

"And so we got our parents' permissions and went on this rafting trip. We were all pretty young, maybe 12 or so, and believed we were absolutely invincible. So at first we were content to lazy about on the boat, just soaking up sun and telling stories. I think it was Aylmer who did it first—yes, that's right. He stripped down completely naked and jumped in the water and began splashing us. Now of course, our masculine prides couldn't take such an insult—so the rest of us tore off our clothes, and jumped in. Aylmer tried to run, we gave chase, and thus, one hour later, we swam back in search of our raft. And it was gone. With our clothes."

Anne was smiling. She could guess where this went.

"So, of course, we were all mortified and cold. We were just drifting in the current, which was getting more and more shallow, trying to play it cool, when we passed by this group of schoolgirls, walking back home. They all giggled and waved at us—so of course we had to show off, you know. Once again, masculine prides. Ryun completely forgot that he was buck naked, and tried to duck my head under water. In doing so, he had to jump up and press down on me, you know? And so he flashed them. You should've heard the girls scream and gasp—and this one girl says, completely serious: 'Are they all that small?' Needless to say, he turned _so red_, and we all burst out laughing. We still tease him about it today."

"You're terrible," Anne said, but her laughter cancelled out any admonishment.

Ignoring her previous comment, Thandril stood from his chair and bowed gracefully. Extending a single hand, he offered: "Dance with me, milady?"

"Oh, I wish I could, Thandril," she said sadly. "But I really don't know how to dance."

"No worries," he said, winking. "I do, and it's all in the leading." Without further ado, he grabbed her hand lightly and whisked her out onto the dance floor.

"Put your left hand on my shoulder, and hold mine with your other one," he murmured. She did so accordingly, blushing as his free hand found her waist. "And now just follow my lead."

It was a lot easier than it seemed—Thandril did indeed know how to dance. She simply enjoyed the whirl of excitement that came with dancing for a few moments, settling in and getting comfortable. The whispers increased in volume.

"So why are you so well known around here?" She asked curiously.

He flinched and shrugged. "I don't know."

She raised an eyebrow in response, and he sighed.

"I hate liking a smart girl," he said resentfully, and she stepped lightly on his toes to show her disapproval. "Anyway, I guess it's because my uncle's kind of rich and he doesn't have a son and I'm going to be his heir and money is the equivalent of publicity in the elven society."

"Is this sort of thing frequent?" She asked, intensely curious. She was referring to the dozen gazes following the couple's progress, and the hints of whispers around the room.

"In public places, yes. That's why I tend not to go out too often." He sounded somewhat irritated.

"That's absolutely fascinating. I can't imagine living life with so many people looking in on me—or with so much money. It must be so nice."

"Yes, well, as interesting as you find it, it really isn't my favorite topic to discuss. Can we talk about something else?" He was definitely irritated now—he had tensed underneath her touch.

"Sure," she said easily. But neither of them could come up with any interesting choices—there was a long, awkward pause. The dance, before so flowing and enjoyable, was now stiff and constricting.

"You are a prat, you know that right?" She said absently

"What for?" He asked. His tone was a mixture between amusement and offense.

"Because you now think I like you only because you're rich," she replied. He blinked once, twice at her frankness. "You've probably had a few girls do that and now you think that I'm one of them. You're very, very wrong, you know."

He eased up considerably under her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then—

"Well," he murmured in her ear, drawing her closer. "Why do you like me then?"

"I never said I did," she replied. He cursed, and laughed gently into her neck, his breath tickling it slightly.

"You smell delicious," he commented dryly. "If we weren't in a public place and if I were capable of coherent thought, I'd probably kiss you right now."

She shivered at the thought of a kiss—guilt attacked her stomach with reinforcements—but she quickly brushed that away.

"You seem very capable of coherent thought," she said. Then she hit herself inwardly—it seemed like she was telling him to kiss her. Then she hit herself again—there was nothing wrong with that. She should _not _feel guilty. _Not_. But, unbidden, images of Peter came crawling into her mind.

"Yes, well," he took a deep breath. "I'm not. I honestly can't see straight around you sometimes, Elliot."

"Dizzy spells?" She suggested.

"No," he replied, smiling. "You're just stunningly gorgeous and I think I've fallen for you really, really hard."

The shame swelled up again, and she pulled away as the song ended.

"We should get back," she said quietly, not meeting his gaze. "It's getting late."

They reached her room sometime in the mid-evening, after an excruciatingly torturous walk home. Thandril had tried to keep the conversation flowing, but all Anne could focus on were the echoes of Peter's laughter in her ears.

"Is everything alright, Elliot?" He asked, concerned. "You've been awfully quiet for a while, now."

She was a coward. "Yes." She replied. "Everything's fine, I'm just tired." _Coward._

"Oh," he said, relieved. They had reached her room. "Alright. Well, I had fun tonight."

"I did too," she said, smiling at him. He really was a sweet young man. On impulse, she reached up and hugged him tightly, noticing that he didn't smell too bad himself. Something warm and nice and comforting. "Thank you for dinner and teaching me how to dance."

"It was my pleasure," he said softly. Then, suddenly, he swore under his breath.

"Is everything okay?" She asked, pulling back and slightly worried.

"Yeah," he muttered, shaking his head. "You're just far too tempting for your own good."

A sudden wave of rebellion against the shame and the guilt hit her, or perhaps it was the alcohol she had consumed that night. She was feeling reckless, confident, and sensual.

"Can you see straight?" She murmured in a low voice, using her small hands to direct his face, till his eyes met hers. He really did have very pretty eyes—she especially liked the golden flecks outside the deep brown orbs.

"Somewhat," he said hoarsely.

"That's good." She said, biting her lip. He was staring at her now, specifically her mouth, in a half flattering, half disturbing way.

"I'm going to kiss you, you know." Thandril whispered, grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting it upwards.

And then he did. For the first few seconds, Anne persuaded herself that she enjoyed it—after all, his lips were warm and soft and inviting, his breath hot and sweet. He was a very good kisser—she found one hand tangled in his hair, the other at his shoulder, and his enveloping her waist. But when he deepened the kiss, she couldn't take it anymore and pulled back.

"I've got to go," she said, eyes downcast. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were dark with desire. "Thank you Thandril. I really enjoyed myself."

And then she shut the door, ran to her bed, and lay there, crying. It was so_ wrong_ to kiss Thandril. She felt like she had played him, or been violated. Soon the tears faded and she felt extraordinarily restless. Getting up, she headed for the hospital to see some of her old patients.

She knew something was wrong about a hundred feet down the corridor. There were the sounds of bustling nurses, panicked voices--and one of them was desperately familiar. Edmund. She almost groaned aloud—hadn't she had enough stress tonight?

"Can't you stop that bleeding?" Edmund was saying, his voice hoarse.

"We're trying, Majesty." Elizabeth, sounding tense as hell. Anne's heart was hitting her chest so hard she thought it might break her bones. "He's losing a lot of blood."

"I know that!" Edmund, shouting now, his voice agitated with fear. "Damn it, Peter…" There was a loud slamming noise, and quite a few people yelped.

_Peter_. Thoughts rushed into her mind, and a thousand different things hit her at once. Worry, terror, anger, curiosity, anxiety, and mad panic—spurred on by the adrenaline, Anne sprinted the last distance, her eyes widening and a tidal wave of fear threatening to wash out all good sense. _What had happened to Peter?_

"Hitting things and being angry won't do any good, Majesty." It was Elizabeth again. Her tone was calming.

Anne burst into the room, and blanched immediately. The world spun around her and she saw black for a few seconds before blinking rapidly. She never knew someone could bleed so much. Peter lay, motionless, passed out on a cot. The white sheets of the bed he was on was stained red—red, red, red with blood. Blood was everywhere—in a pool on the floor next to him, on his shirt, in his hair, on the hands and shoes of everyone present.

**A/N: Ehehehehehehe evil cliffy…more action, no? I told you it would be long and juicy. First Anne gets kissed and is confused and flirts and then regrets flirting, then Peter returns and Edmund is pissed and Thandril is confused and the war is over…and I wrote a really really really long chapter. The ending probably sucks and sounds rushed, and I'm sorry, but I had terrible writer's block and decided to just write through it, even if it sucks. So I apologize. But I did update! And I broke 3000 words for the first time (it's pathetic, I know…some people have chapter with like, 10,000. I just can't do that). I came really close to 4,000!**

**And yup! Five reviews, please. Thank you all :P **

**Second A/N: This is the revised version. I only changed a few things/words, but hopefully it's still alright. :).**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Chronicles of Narnia. **

**A/N: Okay. So this is going to be an abnormally long author's note: first off, I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter, but it can be explained. I had to attend some (amazing) church camps in Canada, and those literally ate up my life. I was gone for two weeks for that. And then I came home, wrote a chapter despite extreme amounts of writer's block—and realized it was absolute _crap_. But because I had made you all wait so long already, I just posted it regardless. And then a reviewer pointed out a really, really, _really _stupid mistake that I did (I seem to be doing those a lot, no?), and so I took it down and re-wrote it. That's the explanation for the wait. **

**So, to sum it all up—I am _so so so _sorry for the delay. Please read and review?**

**Second A/N: There's a bit of a Christian theme in this chapter, but I'm not aiming to offend. I just thought since these books were kind of Christian themselves, and I am one too...so no one be offended, please :).****

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Whenever people talked about how they felt before they fainted, they had always mentioned extreme dizziness and a head rush, before stars appeared and they blacked out. Anne had always thought this too over exaggerated; kind of like the people who saw _fireworks_ during a kiss. No one _actually _saw stars or fireworks, of course. That was just for show.

But now, she was more inclined to agree with them. She felt her head spin, her stomach revolt, a huge rush fill her brain—and even the stars. Little neon pink and green ones, as her vision whirled about most unwelcomingly. She blinked quickly, once, twice, three times, ordering herself to _stay in control_, and gasped for air. Soon everything was back to normal again. Anne, however, would never doubt those describing the stars again (she was still in question about the fireworks, however).

It wasn't that blood made her faint. She had worked in a _hospital_ for the wounded for almost five months. It was just…he looked so dead. His skin was pale and drawn, his lips parched, his eyes shut. He was so still and so frightening. It gave her the chills.

"We're going to have to get a surgeon in here," Elizabeth said grimly. "It looks like he has the tip of a weapon—arrow, maybe?—still stuck in his chest. Unless we can get it out, cleanse the area, and stop the bleeding…" Her voice faded away, but everyone knew what the rest of the sentence was.

"Damn it!" Edmund cried again. It wasn't until he said this that Anne looked at him. Then she realized that the boy was hurt too; his pants were stained with blood as well, matted and sticking to his right leg.

"Your Majesty, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside," Elizabeth said calmly, reaching for disinfectant solution. "You too, Anne. Oh, and I'll send someone to awaken Susan and Lucy. Their Highnesses would want to know about this as well."

Edmund whirled to face the other girl, his face twisted with worry. Quickly it became apparent that he intended to unleash all his frustration and helplessness upon her.

"YOU!" He snarled. "What are you doing here? I don't want you here."

She was offended—scared at first, and then just angry. He was being _ridiculous._ Suddenly something inside of her snapped. "I'm here because I care for Peter, too," Anne retorted. "You can't stop me, either, Edmund, so you might as well accept it. Stop being such a prick. And I believe she told us to wait outside."

Edmund gaped, open mouthed, at Anne for a few seconds. Then he quickly came to his wits and exited the infirmary to the waiting room. There was an awkward pause between the two, until at last Anne decided to ask: "What exactly happened?"

Edmund scowled at the girl, but answered regardless. "We had just signed a ceasefire, an armistice, with the Buffalomen, and were riding home. Unfortunately, a small group of rebels didn't agree with the majority choice to surrender. They attacked us, ambushed us—we rode Peter back as quickly as possible."

"What happened to the rebels?" Anne asked.

Edmund shrugged in reply. "Most of them were captured, but some were killed. I didn't stay around to see what their punishment was."

"Execution?" She pressed quietly.

"Most likely." His tone of voice was somber.

Another pause, in which they both were left to their own thoughts and worries. Edmund began pacing again, picking himself up and walking around the little room again and again, frowning at the floor.

"I hate war." Anne said suddenly. He looked up at her in surprise, stopping.

"Why?"

"Because all it results in is death and pain," she answered. "And hurt and hatred."

"But sometimes it's necessary," he replied. "You have to go to war to ensure that all is just and right."

"Nothing justifies hatred," she whispered.

"You're such a girl," he scoffed. She glared at him.

"And you're such a prick." She shot back.

"Really? And how, exactly, did you arrive at that conclusion?" He asked venomously."You've been nothing but unnecessarily mean to me since the day I arrived, which justifies prickiness. And I would like to know why." She lifted her chin a good few inches and continued to glare at the boy across from her.

There was a silence, in which Edmund tilted his head at her.

"You're different, you know," he remarked suddenly.

"War changes people," she replied, shrugging. "You still haven't answered my question."

"It's because I didn't know where you belonged," he finally replied, minutes later. She quirked an eyebrow and opened her mouth to say something, but he raised a hand and stopped her. "Just let me get this all out before you say anything. You didn't _fit _in my picture of Narnia. I had…have...this ideal portrait of what life here should be like, and you just messed it up."

"How did I mess it up?" She queried, before she could stop herself.

"You reminded me of me," Edmund replied. "I saw the old Edmund in you. And I hated it."

"What did you do in the past?" She asked softly, well aware that this was delicate ground on which she tread. "Why do you hate yourself so much?"

"I don't hate myself!" He snapped. "I hate my _past_."

"Well…sometimes we just have to accept that we're not perfect. And that we all make mistakes. And then we have to move on. I don't mean we should _forget _about it, but we shouldn't let it consume us." She said the words slowly, carefully. But nonetheless, he was offended.

"You're one to talk!" He cried. "Peter's always going on about how something traumatic happened in your past, and how we have to be gentle with you. Why don't you take some of your own advice? We all make mistakes. Move on!" He sprang up again and began pacing.

She, on the other hand, slumped back into her seat. _We all make mistakes. Move on!_ The words rang in her head, again and again and again. _Move on!_ Could…she? Could she move past her father and brother's probable deaths? Could she move past her mother's alcoholism? The past belonged in the past…right?

The whole concept was so mind-boggling—she had been stuck in this rut, this valley for so long, dwelling on the past. And perhaps…it was time to move on. Not forget about it, necessarily, but to stop it from consuming her. To live, and to grow, without all these backward glances. Life suddenly seemed a hell of a lot brighter.

Now if only Peter would get better…she settled into her chair and closed her eyes briefly, because she felt a headache coming on. Little animals were chewing at her insides, and worry was flooding her mind. She hadn't prayed in a long time; not since her father and brother were reported MIA. She thought it was God's fault that life had turned out so bitter. But…now? She couldn't help but have a slight appreciation for the bitterness, for it had helped her grow. And without it she wouldn't have fallen into Narnia, this beautiful world. She wouldn't have met Peter—this beautiful boy man. Or Thandril, or Lucy, or Susan, or even Edmund.

Perhaps…what her mother had said, when she used to read the Bible regularly, was true. _"Nothing in life happens on accident, Anne."_ Maybe God was sovereign. Maybe He did have a plan for her, and maybe everything did work together for her good. She would just…have to take that blind leap of faith. She would just have to keep trusting in Him and in His Glory.

And so she prayed for the first time in months, that God keep Peter safe. She just kept repeating that, over and over and over. _God, keep him safe.

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_

Suddenly, she jolted awake (when had she fallen asleep? She didn't remember) and blinked once, twice, groggily at the (too) bright sun. Her limbs were sore and stiff, and so she stretched them experimentally.

"What happened?" She asked hazily. Her back hurt in amazing quantities. She looked about her to see that the walls were starch white; as were the chairs, the sheets, the table. The room smelled like sanitary cleansers. She must be in the hospital.

"Well," an entirely too familiar voice drawled. "I would think it rather obvious. You fell asleep."

"I know _that_," she said, scowling at Edmund. "I meant _what happened to Peter." _She rubbed her eyes again and noticed that Susan and Lucy were also in the waiting room, sitting a bit further down.

"He's fine," Susan replied, smiling at Anne. "We used some of Lucy's cordial to save him. He's weak from blood loss, but he will be alright. It's good to see you again, Anne."

"It's good to see you too, Susan."

"He's awake, you know," Lucy interjected. She gestured towards the beds. "If you want to talk to him, that is."

"He is?" Anne asked, swallowing. Suddenly she realized that she was in yesterday's clothes, her hair was absolutely wild, her breath probably disgusting. And she felt incredibly nervous and self-conscious.

"Yes," Susan said, smiling. "Go talk." She gently pulled the other girl out of her chair and pushed her towards the beds. She stumbled nervously into the room and headed over to Peter's section. He was busy talking to a nurse, but when the chair by his beside squeaked as she sat down in it, he abruptly turned to stare at her.

"Anne?" He asked incredulously. She had forgotten what his voice sounded like; warm and deep and strong. She felt her heart lift just with seeing him and hearing him again.

"It's good to see you, Peter," she whispered. "I'm glad you're back."

He smiled at her and said: "I'm glad I'm back, too."

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**A/N: Oooh short. I just thought it'd be a good place to end it, after all this hectic confusion and drama. Some peace and quiet and happiness for once, eh? Always pleasant. **

**Anyway, I'm really sorry for the abnormally long wait. I really do suck at updating :(. But please forgive me and read and review regardless! I do appreciate you all. **

**And remember—five, please? Thanks!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: The house belongs to C.S. Lewis. I just squat. **

**A/N: I'm BAAACCCCKKKK and I'm so sorry! No, seriously. You all have been AMAZING, and…I just suck. So yeah. But it's winter break! Winter break means free time! It means WRITING TIME. So I think I'll be able to update another chapter, maybe two in the next two weeks :). I promise I will finish this story, by the way. Maybe twenty chapters in total? Somewhere around there. It's getting close to the end, by the way.**

**Please read and review. You all know the drill… **

And now onto the chapter!!! Also known as: "In Which Fluffballs fluff around fluffily and Peter is Charming"

He's changed, she notices. Physically, he looks so tired; his skin is drawn, there are shadows under his eyes and in his eyes that weren't there before. But it's beyond that. There's more of the king, the man in him, and less of the boy. His chin is tilted higher, prouder, his jaw stronger and more determined, dependable. There is a new ferocity in his countenance, a new fire. His shoulders are broader and thrown back, and despite his weakened physical condition, he radiates strength and confidence.

She's changed, too, he observes. Her smile comes softer, but more frequently; her laugh has lost most of its wild tint. Her eyes are no longer lost and turbulent; steel is in them now. He recognizes it as the look of one who has witnessed death. Everything about her, all the sharp edges and desperate needs, seemed to have dimmed into something quieter, a more subtle beauty instead of piercing and striking. She's grown up, and something about the new Anne is captivating.

They spend the first day catching up, spilling their stories about the entire war in a straight three hour conversation. He tells her about how close they were to losing so many times, how many self doubts he had, about leadership and responsibility and constant second guessing. He pours out his worries that he would fail the men, that he would give them directions that led them to doom. It was his greatest fear throughout the whole ordeal; his inadequacy. There are near misses, too, so many near misses. He tells her about the casualties, the sleepless nights (and the consequential shadows under his eyes, she assumes), the anxiety that comes with being King. She has no way of understanding, no way to empathize—but those brilliant eyes, glassy with unshed tears and sympathetic emotion—are enough. They aren't even halfway through when Edmund, scowling, tells Anne that it's time for dinner.

They continue the next day with Anne's story. She explains about her beginning, how useless she felt moping around and reading novels. She details the first death that she has ever witnessed; the first life she has seen lost. She pauses at this point to breathe, willfully restraining the tears, her voice low and hoarse when she continues again.

She speaks of herbs and cleaning up the messes and blood, oh God, so much blood. She tells of fear when she hears of his injury, and relief when she heard how Lucy had saved him with the potion in her vial. She speaks of a world where nothing is quite the same anymore; where the sun doesn't shine so bright. He understands her perfectly; it will take an adjustment for the new hardness, the new dull hatred reverberating in the world to fade. He doesn't say it out loud, but just his presence enough reassures her that this new cynicism will wilt, and that beauty and wonders and discovery will one day bloom again.

Once she finishes, he turns his head slightly to the side, to give her some privacy as she wipes her tears away quickly. It's only decent, after all. When he looks back—cautiously, to make sure that he doesn't intrude—she smiles tremulously at him. In that moment, they realize they've just passed a turning point, that the war has forced them to step over the boundary line of childhood and into that mysterious world of adults. They're still young—still too young, in his opinion—but they've crossed now, and it's too late to get back.

He doesn't say it, because he's never been one to voice his affections, but he is glad that she is the one with whom he shares this moment. The two fall silent and stare out the window, at the fading sunset in the distance. Twilight, the end of a day. _How fitting_, he muses. The red gold rays catch upon her face, lighting it in the subtle glow, making her delicate features so gentle that it is heartbreaking. She has never been more beautiful.

The nurses allow him out of bed every day, for about two hours at a time. They say that anymore would be too stressful for his condition; physically exhausting. He says in private, to his siblings and to Anne, that they just like fussing. Honestly, he feels fine.

They're out on a picnic (he said he'd make it up to her long ago, and he was always one to hold onto his promises), sprawled in the grass. They're both lying on their backs, looking up at the sky. It's one of those days; the sorts that are featured in paintings and pictures. The grass is a rich deep emerald, the sky a brilliant blue, the air fresh and the sound of singing birds ringing in his ears. He glances at her briefly; at her eyelids fluttering shut and at the slow, sleepy upwards tilt playing around the corner of her lips, and thinks that heaven must be an awful lot like this.

She rolls off her back, her brown hair catching the sunbeams and glistening almost red for a moment, and props her chin up in her elbow to look at him. He smiles, lazily, and she returns the favor.

"Tell me about the ball," she says, excited.

He rolls his eyes at her; she's a girl, through and through.

"What do you want to know?" He asks slowly, pretending to be exasperated.

"Everything," she laughs. "When is it, where is it, what sort of dress I ought to wear, what sort of dances I ought to know…" She pauses then, frowns, the delight fading quickly from her face.

"What?" He asks, puzzled by her sudden mood change.

"I can't dance," she whispers in horror, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, Peter, I can't go if I can't dance! It would be mortifying to show up, tripping and stepping on feet and stammering apologies. Oh, Peter, but I want to go so much!"

He laughs at her, reaching over to dislodge her hands, to hold them comfortingly in his own. "Silly Anne," he says. "Of course I'll teach you how to dance beforehand. Did you honestly think I'd let my partner show up without it?"

She smiles at him, grateful, and then pauses, removing her hands from his. "Wait. Partner?"

"Yes," he replies, folding an elbow behind his head and leaning back on it. "You'll have to dance at least once with me." It's a demand, not an invitation.

She cocks an eyebrow, offended. "Thank you for asking so politely, Peter."

"You're welcome, Anne," he says airily, and she huffs at the sheer _arrogance_ in him. It irritates her that she isn't actually angry, too. He turns to grin at her to let her know he was just teasing her, and she softens visibly.

"You're a prat," she says sullenly, trying desperately to cling to her resentment. She's forgiven him, though, and he knows it. He laughs at her expression, and she, fake scowling, pulls out a handful of grass to throw at his pompous face.

A piece catches him in the mouth and he yelps, making a face as he pulls the blade from his mouth. "Ew." He comments casually, before stuffing a handful in her face as retaliation.

A full out war commences, punctuated by his yells and her shrieks. The vegetation flies between them, a mixture of green grass and the brown dirt from their roots. She huddles on her side, laughing as she attempts to protect her face from the onslaught, and thinks that heaven must be an awful lot like this.

They meet two days later in the ballroom, when Peter is cleared with a full recovery from the hospital room. The ball is looming close, a few days away. Soft music is playing in the background, provided by a recording of some sort. It's slow and gentle and soothing, yet she's still so nervous her heart might beat out of her chest.

There's really no reason to be, she muses. It's just Peter, after all. No one else to see her mess up, if she messes up. Just Peter. Just her _friend_ Peter.

But when he turns to grin at her and walks up closer, she can physically feel herself heat up a few degrees. Friends do _not_ react in that manner to friends. Friends _do not_ think their friends are really quite handsome. She shakes her head to clear it of these thoughts and focuses on what he's saying.

"Alright, Anne, put your hand on my shoulder and give me your other one," he instructs. She follows suit gingerly, making sure to keep her distance with caution. His hand is warm, much bigger than hers, and comforting. He also smells quite nice, in a frighteningly distracting manner.

Peter notices the distance between them, smiles, shakes his head, and places his free hand on her waist, pulling her closer. She flushes. "I'm not going to bite, Anne. You needn't be frightened."

"You ought to be," she says ruefully. "Your toes will probably be black and blue before today's over."

He rolls his eyes at her. "I'm just going to lead you through a few steps, okay? It shouldn't be too bad, just follow my lead. When I step forward, you step back. When I step back, you step forward. And the steps to the side should be done in synchronization. Got that?"

"You step forward, I step back. You step back, I step forward. Sides at the same time. That's not so bad. I got it." She nods, staring firmly at his feet, her brow furrowed in concentration. He swallows a laugh at how _adorable_ she is when she's worried. She notices.

"I really, _really_ don't want to make a fool of myself," she begs, looking up briefly. "So please just teach me and don't tease me."

"I'll try my best, milady," he says, smiling. "We'll go slow. Ready?" She nods again.

"Step, step, step—ow, that's my foot—you should've gone back there, Anne, not forward—step. This part you want to go to the side, and we'll count it, alright? To the left first—one, two, step forward—owww—"

They practice and practice and practice and practice, until she feels herself flowing in time with the music and she can stop staring at her feet. It's probably been hours, but she doesn't think to look at the clock. She can't seem to tear her gaze from his face, anyway.

When the steps become second nature and her initial fear fades into a distant memory, she decides to chance conversation, racking her brains for a good topic.

"You smell nice," she murmurs rashly, and then promptly flushes at how utterly ridiculous that sounded.

"You can talk now? Shame." He mocks, amused. She flushes darker, scowling at him. "Ah, milady, you know I'm joking."

"Since when did you call me milady?" She asks, tilting her head to the side. She's noticed that as she's gotten more comfortable with the steps, he's drawn her a little closer, so that she can feel his body heat.

"Since you've become such a graceful dancer, milady," he replies easily, twirling her once. She does it perfectly, she notes with satisfaction. That one had taken a bit of work.

"Thank you for that, by the way," she says. "I know I abused your feet something awful, and I really appreciate your help. Maybe I won't look a complete fool in four days, after all."

"My pleasure," he says, and he seems to honestly mean it. "You can repay me with a dance, you know."

"It's the least I could do, kind sir," she teases, and he smiles at her. He really does have very blue eyes.

"Do you want to meet me again, tomorrow, to learn the more difficult tango, since you've now mastered the waltz?" He asks casually after a moment. "You have to promise me a dance in those, too, you know."

She laughs at him, and then suddenly pauses, stops dancing. "There are…_more_?" She squeaks. "More _difficult_ ones?"

He laughs aloud at her expression. "Don't worry, Anne," he says. "I'll teach you all of them." He lets go of her waist, pries her shock frozen fingers from his shoulder, and bends to press his warm, soft lips to the back of her still captive hand. She's almost _glad _that she's still frozen, otherwise she might've fainted or something stupid.

"For the record, milady," he murmurs after pulling back. His eyes are darker, and she shivers slightly. "You smell nice, too."  
Predictably, she flushes.

**A/N: Fluffity fluff fluff fluffing fluffers fluff around fluffville fluffily. I just needed to get back in it, ya know? Yup, please read and review!!! Five at least, please. **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Wow, it's been a while. I apologize profusely. I'm trying to ease back into this thing, alright? So go easy on me if this chapter isn't the most amazing one I've written. **

**I'm really sorry that I suck at life so much, guys. Forgive me?**

**But I'm back! Thank you, KD Sparrow for the encouragement. And after a month in Europe, I've got some great ideas for the fluffy parts of this little ficcy…**

**Please read and review, you wonderful people!!! I appreciate you all so much.**

**Disclaimer: No.**

* * *

She's walking through the corridor, busy finishing the last few pages of the book Susan had lent her, when she literally _collides _with someone.

"Ouch!" She yelps, more out of shock than actual pain, dropping her book and watching it fall in a flurry of page and text.

It's probably more her fault than anyone else's, but the other cries out quickly:

"Sorry! My fault, I didn't see you there."

She laughs. "No, the blame lies with me. I was so busy reading that I couldn't be bothered to watch where I was going."

She bends to pick up her things, only to have it hastily done for her.

She raises her head to say thanks and catches the gaze of a familiar pair of eyes; warm brown flecked gold. Her heart rises in elation; she's missed him, every inch of dimpled, handsome elf.

"Thandril!" She cries, happily, books forgotten as they straighten together. He's grinning too, obviously hadn't recognized her in the first few moments of their accident. "I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?"

"I've been as well as I could," he replies, straight faced. "Considering how you've forgotten about my existence for the past few days. I never took you as the sort to kiss and run, Ellie."

He looks at her reproachfully, and she blushes, even though she knows he's only joking.

"I didn't mean to, honest," she explains. "Things just got hectic, what with the end of the war, and…all. I had things to deal with, and I'm so sorry for ignoring you. I promise it wasn't on purpose."

She almost brings up Peter—almost—but it's far too awkward right now, because she isn't even sure what's going on now. She and Peter talk constantly, spend so much time together, but never once have either mentioned anything remotely romantic. She doesn't know where she stands with him. And after that one night out with Thandril…her love life is just one big confusing mess that she'll untangle when the time calls, and not a minute before.

"I understand," he sighs, mock-melancholy. "The country is a higher priority than a man, admirable."

"It's not nearly so noble," she laughs. "I'm really quite selfish, don't think so highly of me." _If only he knew…_

"Selfish?" He repeats, shocked. "Never, Ellie."

"You don't know me well enough, then," she says with a crooked smile.

He thinks he'd like to kiss that sad twist away from her lips.

"Well, give me a chance and I would gladly like to do so," he replies easily, and sweeps her hand into his. He gives it a light squeeze as they start walking. "I've missed you, you know."

"I've missed you too," she says honestly.

And she has, she really has. He makes life a bit lighter, Thandril. Just being around him cheers her up endlessly.

The books are tucked into a corner of her arm, haphazardly, and she follows him aimlessly through the corridors, walking without purpose or plan. She trips a bit on the hem of her dress, pulls hard on his arm to keep balance, and he laughs at her blush.

"How have you been, Elle? It's been a while, but apparently not much has changed. I can see you're still as clumsy as always."

"I've been…alright, I suppose," she says, shoving him lightly. "I mean, without your constant presence to annoy me, I've been much better than I imagined possible."

He clutches at his heart with his free hand and gasps in mock pain. "You wound me again, fair lady. Being around you is becoming hazardous to my health."

"Your choice," she says, shrugging. "You know the risks."

"Hmm, the whole heart palpitations, sudden shortness of breath, tongue tied occurrences?" He asks. "Elliot disease."

She smiles at him. "The best kind of death."

"Never spoke a truer word," he continues airily. "I'm afraid I'm a bit of a masochist, you know. I enjoy the slow torture of your company far too much."

"You adore me, don't deny it," she says easily. She pauses—hesitates—after saying it, unsure of how he'll take the words.

"That I do," he replies, casual like, and she relaxes. "I never attempted to deny it."

"Good," she says, tossing her hair behind her shoulder in mock self-importance. "Because I like being adored."

A pause.

"And for a moment there, I thought you were going to say you adored me too," he sighed. "Hope dies last."

She laughed. "You know I do, Thandril. It's so obvious. Just…telling you so only boosts your ego to intolerable heights."

He pauses their walk, and pulls her to a halt in front of him, collecting both her hands in his and intertwining their fingers.

"Did you mean that? Do you really like me, Ellie?" He asks, eager and breathless, and suddenly she sees that he's serious, that he honestly didn't know what she found so evident.

"Of course," she murmurs as she stares determinedly at the floor, pulling away to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He places his free hand on her waist. "You're very hard not to like."

It's the truth, all of it, but for some reason she feels ashamed at saying it, feels guilt at seeing his wide smile. A pause.

"That's good," he mumbles, leaning his forehead against hers briefly before pulling away again. "Because I like you a hell of a lot, Anne."

She looks up in surprise, because it's the first time he's used her name—her real name—in the months that they've been together. She finds him staring at her, eyes darker than normal, and shivers.

And suddenly he's no longer teasing; suddenly the whole atmosphere around them has changed.

She bites her lip and tugs gently, subtly trying to escape. This isn't right—none of it is right, she hadn't meant to encourage him, but she didn't want to hurt him either—she likes Thandril, likes him _so much_, loves his easy manner and his infectious laugh and how he seems to make the world less grey. But then there's Peter—Peter, her rock, Peter, strong and breathtaking and gallant, who shoulders the grey without a thought and keeps walking, shoulders straight and tall.

He's stepped closer now, dropping her hands and moving his to her waist. How the hell did they end up like this? She's so confused.

"I'd forgotten how pretty you are," he says, hoarse and low and soft, and against her will her eyes flutter shut and she tries, wants to, attempts to pull away—she swears she does—but it's so damn hard when she likes Thandril so much…but not in that way, she thinks—she supposes—she isn't sure. "It's kind of dizzying."

"Thandril…"

It's supposed to be firm and cold, halting the whole thing, but it comes out breathy instead, and she curses herself in her head for being so weak.

He shudders visibly, strokes her jaw with his thumb, and leans in.

And then there's the distinct sound of someone clearing his throat behind them, and they jump apart, break away, and she turns around and closes her eyes this time, for real, because _holy shit_ even she doesn't deserve luck this terrible.

It has to be some horrible nightmare, she thinks, eyes squeezed tightly shut. There's no way something like this happens in real life.

But when she opens her eyes again, Peter is still there, still standing with a look of cool anger on his face, still staring at her, still intense and still hurt and _oh this can't be real_. There's an expression on his face, oddly twisted—one of cold fury and disappointment. His eyes are like ice, his jaw tight.

Just when she thinks that it can't get any worse, that she can't bear the awkwardness anymore, Thandril speaks up, breaks it.

"It's good to see you, Peter," he says, smiling.

Anne's eyebrows can't go any higher, she thinks.

"You two know each other?" She sputters.

Peter shrugs, still staring at her. "When you're forced to mingle with other nobles at society balls and such, you tend to remember the ones with a sense of humor."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Thandril replies easily, stepping away from Anne. It's a sheer miracle that he isn't embarrassed, caught by the king of a foreign country, in public, about to snog some girl. She admires that; how he seems to take everything in stride, that is.

"Plus it's useful to know the future ruler of the Elvin kingdom pretty well," Peter continues. His tone is light and casual, but his eyes are anything but.

Anne gapes.

"Future ruler?" She asks, feeling more and more stupid as the moments pass by. She rounds on Thandril. "You just said you were the heir to some rich uncle! You never told me that he was the _king_!"

Before Thandril can reply, however, Peter cuts him off, eyes steely and jaw set: "Mmm. You seem to have good taste, then. Funny how all your friends seem to be royalty."

Her cheeks flush pink at the implication, and suddenly she's no longer embarrassed but angry as well, _hacked off_ that Peter would even think such a thing, would even suspect her of double motives in her friendships.

"What is it, exactly, that you are saying, milord?" She asks coolly. "I'm afraid I'm confused."

"I apologize for any confusion I may have caused then, _milady_," Peter replies scathingly. "I simply meant to say that it is _curious_ indeed how you always associate with the rich and famous."

She scowls at him, but he isn't finished yet.

"And if you didn't pick up, by curious, I meant _advantageous for you_," he spits, and there's another silence, harsher this time, and he curses his rashness inwardly.

Thandril is still standing there, wild eyed and appalled by their biting comments and lack of courtesy, but she _does not give a shit._

"How dare you," she hisses, and she clenches her fists in fury. "I cannot…you…how _dare_ you."

She doesn't hit him, though he'd rather she did, but simply spins on her heel and stomps away, head held high and chin tilted up, leaving him alone in the hallway with Thandril, speechless.

"What's going on, Peter?" The other asks suspiciously. "How do you know her?"

A pause. Peter's lip curls back slightly, brows narrow.

"I don't," he answers curtly. He hesitates, before snapping: "And I'm glad of it."

He spins on his heel and storms off, leaving Thandril alone in the hallway, utterly bemused as to what the hell just happened.

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**Hi guys. It's short, I know, but it's been so long...I just thought any update is better than none at all. And so I apologize once again for the delay. I really am a terrible, horrible excuse for a human being. But it's alright, because the next update, I PROMISE, won't take me so long.**

** In fact, I already have part of it written. **

**Anyway, read and review, please?  
Encourage me :).  
**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Ah yes. I suck at life. Forgive me regardless?**

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He is in a fabulously awful mood the next day, storming around the castle in a right snit until he gets in a fight with Susan. Susan, the Gentle, the Calm, the Serene. Out of all the Pevensies, she is the most pacifistic, the hardest to rile up and the easiest to cool down.

He takes comfort in that last characteristic now.

Standing in front of her, he can't help but feel a bit befuddled. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't been aware of his horrific behavior, hadn't noticed his snide remarks or his brusque tone of voice, didn't realize how perfectly appalling he was being to those surrounding him.

But if it was enough to throw Susan into a face-reddening, foot-stamping, shout-until-hoarse tantrum, he must've been unbearable.

He mutters an apology, finding it difficult because he isn't quite sure exactly what he did to hack her off, and exits the scene quickly. It takes a thirty minute walk out in the gardens to convince him that something needs to be done, some change needs to be brought about.

He decides that now would be a better time than ever to apologize to his sister, before the upcoming festivities overtake all chance for conversation. She always has been one to forgive and forget.

He approaches her room, knocks quietly on the door, and steps inside when she voices her permission.

"Sue," he begins, sighing. "Look, I'm really really sorry, I don't know what came over me, I've just been—"

"Apology accepted," she cuts in simply, and he relaxes, heaves a breath, glad as always that his little sister is unable to hold a grudge. "Sit, Peter. What was going on? I haven't seen you so upset in a long time."

"I just…I need to work some things out with someone," he says, and his face goes dark.

"Someone being Anne Elliot?" Susan presses shrewdly, ignoring her brother's start of surprise. "I'm not stupid, Peter. I can see and hear things, and the servants do talk, you know."

"Right. Well." He says awkwardly. "Then…knowing what you've seen and heard…what do you think I should do?"

Susan pauses, thinks for a moment, before answering. It's another thing he loves about her; how she will wait and consider before speaking anything. Some people are aggravated by her slow replies, but in times of need, Susan's wisdom is unparalleled. "I think you should tell her exactly how you feel. It isn't fair to expect anything of her if she isn't even aware of how you feel. So let her know."

"Right." He muses. "Let her know. Right."

* * *

Anne thinks she looks overdressed until she peers out of the curtains into the world awaiting her.

They've given her a beautiful silvery grey gown, something deep and something elegant, soft and clingy. Her hair has been fussed and primped and played with for hours, pinned half up with pretty, delicate flowers. She's never walked in high heels, so after much protest, she is finally given a pair of satin flats.

After escaping the maids and the endless fittings and the fidgeting in chairs until she thought she would go crazy, she wanders along the hallways for the remaining hours. The servants are all busy, bustling about importantly with silver platters or hands on foreheads, muttering under their breaths about so and so's incompetence, he should've had the shrimp here _ages_ ago. The orchestra is practicing frantically in the ballroom, so she stays and admires their music for a few minutes before moving on.

Everyone seems to be in preparation for this upcoming ball. Lucy and Susan are both going through the same torturous process which Anne suffered, except amplified, because they are both Queens and Anne is a Nobody. They shoot her apologetic looks and talk to her out of the corners of their mouths until a self-important looking man tells them to shut their mouths, please, he has to apply coloring.

She leaves after that.

It becomes a countdown, a rush to accomplish as much as possible before the trumpets blow to announce the arrival of the first guest. She retreats to her room and sits on her bed, fiddling with her newly manicured nails, scratching off the carefully applied polish until she can find herself, clean and natural and untainted, underneath all the layers.

She looks up when she hears the aforementioned trumpets, catches the strains of echoing applause from downstairs.

She's too scared to go straight into the ballroom at first, because it's _intimidating_, this pomp and festivity, these announcements and cheers. She's not used to public recognition—although she doubts she'd get much anyway, being Just Anne, not Duchess Anne or Queen Anne or Anything At All Anne. She decides instead to trail the grand hallways, occasionally brushing her fingers against the ivy decorations, the trellises crawling up the pillars, until she is behind the curtain to the throne room.

It is here, hidden from view by a thick red velvet sheet of fabric, that she dares look out into the celebration.

It's spectacular. She can think of no other word to describe everything. Majestic columns, marble floors, two spiral staircases leading down to the throne room from which Lucy and Susan and Edmund and Peter will descend. The orchestra is playing on a stage off to the left, and they sound much, much better than she recalls, magnified and boisterous, elegance embodied. Everything is elegant, so fancy and so beautiful that she is frightened, honest to goodness scared witless.

She pulls back the curtain a little bit more with her fingertips, and sees the newest arrival. She draws in a breath, fascinated.

The lady is an elfin visitor, dainty and graceful and heartbreakingly lovely. Long, flowing black blue hair, eyes bright as stars, skin radiant like the moon and dress exquisite beyond belief. Everything about her screams beauty beauty beauty, beauty in ways that Anne can never accomplish, beauty in the ethereal sense, in the eternal way, in the awe inspiring sort. It almost hurts to see such beauty and know she can never reach it.

She stands behind the curtains and stares.

* * *

He sees her slip into view on the floor below him, watches as she drifts along aimlessly, eyes wide as she peeks into the ballroom, observes the world around her. It's too far to see her expression exactly, but he thinks he can tell what she's feeling. Fear. Excitement. She doesn't belong. It's like a fairy tale come true and she doesn't belong.

He knows because he's been there, done that. A small smile quirks up the corners of his lips, and he murmurs something to his escorts, a small pardon to siblings as he pushes past the line at the top of the steps. Susan grabs his arm and raises her eyebrows in question, but he just pulls away gently and excuses himself, ignoring the protests of the official Organizer of Ceremonies that the presentation of Their Majesties is about to start.

Then he's off, striding down the hallway as quickly as he can, smiling politely to servants down the back steps, walking briskly until he's found himself standing next to her, a few feet away. She's oblivious to his presence, still staring out, staring staring staring.

He takes a moment to admire her, because she never wears her hair down like that and she really ought to more often. Then he steps in close to her, quiet like.

"Hello," he murmurs, and watches with amusement as she jumps out of her reverie. Then recognition strikes.

"Oh. It's you." She says disdainfully, redirecting her gaze to the ballroom again.

"Still mad at me?" He asks. She steps forward involuntarily, away from his closeness. "I'll take your silence as a yes."

She still keeps staring, and he lets her in quiet. A moment, two.

"Peter," she whispers at last. "Look at her."

He leans in to peer past her shoulder and sees Princess Lyrianne of the Water Elves gliding across the floor in a dance of such grace that all others are put to shame, watches her smooth progress with aesthetic appreciation.

"Pretty," he comments nonchalantly.

"Pretty?" She repeats in awe, gesturing towards the ballroom. "Are you joking? She is so much more than pretty. God, I wish I could look like that."

He lets his eyes graze over her once, her slender form, her lovely eyes emphasized by the dress, her cheeks flushed from the excitement. She really _should_ wear her hair down more often; it's soft and loose, gentle waves that fall down her back. She's wearing a bit of makeup, but it's very well done, very natural, nothing outlandish or painted: he makes a mental note to send his approval to the cosmeticians. What captivates him, however, is how utterly oblivious she is to it all.

"You don't look too bad yourself," he murmurs, carefully ignoring her startled glance. Inwardly, he curses himself for never being able to pay her a true compliment.

"Thank you?" She replies, her tone half-questioningly. Then her voice hardens, and she whips back around to observe the Princess. "Don't think I'll forgive you for being such a prat so easily, though."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he laughs. She tilts her head up a little higher and straightens her shoulders proudly. He loves her defiance.

He lets her ogle and sigh in awe for a few more moments before speaking again.

"Well?" He prompts. "Don't you want to go and be a part of it all?"

"Me?" She asks, her voice squeaking. "Oh, I couldn't join. I wouldn't belong. It's all too…too wonderful for me. I'd rather watch."

He rolls his eyes at her complete lack of self-confidence. Apparently she hasn't looked in a mirror before coming downstairs tonight.

"Come on," he says, tugging gently at her elbow. "I want to show you a better view, at least."

She resists for a moment before melting at the offer, and follows quickly behind him, tripping over the hem of her skirt a few times. He notes with amusement that she's not even wearing heels, yet still manages to stumble when walking.

"Where are we going?" She asks a few times, but he ignores her, shushes her, tells her to trust him, just a little bit further, and pulls her along, not letting go of her arm throughout the whole brisk walk. They stride through hallway after grand hallway, take a turn here, there, step quickly up the flight of stairs, and finally come to a halt.

Then they're on top of the staircase, him pulling her lightly through the crowd and the line, apologizing quickly for bumping into people.

"Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you! We had to delay the presentation, everyone was frightened to death, you didn't leave a note or tell anyone and it was mass confusion—Peter, where _were_ you?" Susan hisses at him as he passes, but he ignores the question, takes his place at the front of the line, facing the rich red velvet curtain.

The Official Organizer of Ceremonies is about to faint with relief at his return, and quickly orders the signal for the fanfare.

It's when Anne hears the trumpets that recognition dawns upon her face. Peter has to struggle to hide a smile.

"Oh no," she gasps. "Oh, no. Peter, you didn't!"  
She turns and tries to dash away, but he catches her by the shoulders and holds her stead.

"You didn't," she's whispering again. "Oh, no."

"Don't worry, Anne," he soothes. "Just hold onto me and it'll be alright."

"I can't do this, Peter," she gasps, pale-faced, bending over to brace herself on her knees. He's almost worried—she sounds like she might hyperventilate. "I don't belong , here, I can't go down there—_there_? Have you _seen_ them, Peter? I'm too commonplace, too plain! I don't belong here, I can't do this, I can't."

"You can," he says firmly, straightening her up. "Anne, listen to me. Are you listening?"

She's still gasping for breath, deep inhale exhales, but she looks up into his eyes and nods, once. He moves his grip from her shoulders to her hands, taking each of them into his own, and holds them there for a moment, marveling at how everything—the procession, the trumpets, Susan's frantic questions, _everything_—blurs and fades, dulls and recedes, when he is with her.

"You are beautiful," he whispers, and even she can't deny the honesty in his voice. "You are absolutely _beautiful _and never let anyone tell you otherwise."

She pauses, looks at him, and holds his gaze. There is a moment of hesitation, when her heart pounds especially loud and there is nothing in the world but his eyes and their blue and his face and his hair and him, everything is just him.

Then she opens her mouth to protest but, before she can say a word, the curtains in front of her are moving, parting, and a thousand, a million; myriad lights hit her eyes and blind her temporarily.

Peter has taken her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.

"Smile," he murmurs to her from the corner of his mouth. "Didn't I tell you this was going to be a much better view?"

She can't help it, she laughs at that. With that one laugh comes exhilaration, confidence, all her previous doubts and fears and walls shattered. She straightens her back and smiles, smiles bright, eyes shining, everything steadying from that dizzy previous world because of the boy-man at her side.

"You're still not forgiven," she whispers out of the corner of her mouth as they descend, staring straight ahead and still smiling. "Especially after this."

"Oh, I know," he replies easily. "But it was more than worth it to see your face when you finally realized what was going on."

She laughs again, nudges him in the side. "You are awful."

He grins, she sees it out of the corner of her eyes. "You wouldn't expect me to be anything else, would you?"

She hears his name, proclaimed loud and clear, and the cheers and applause after it.

"Sounds like the people like you," she murmurs, as they descend onto the last step.

"And accompanying His Majesty, Lady Anne Elliot of London, England," the announcer declares, and she starts in surprise. There is a great deal of clapping and whistling for her as well, and she shoots him a look. Just by observing, she can tell he knew that was going to happen.

"Sounds like the people like you, too, milady," he smirks.

"You are awful," she repeats in a whisper, but can't help but smile again, secretly, to herself. He grins as well, because he knows she doesn't mean it.

* * *

**A/N: NEXT CHAPTER: FLUFFFFFF!!!!!**

**So read and review because then I write faster :) :). **


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Oh boy. Big chapter! Long wait for big chapter, but big chapter. And I apologize for the long wait, by the way. It was because it was the end of senior year, so there was grad partying and then mass amounts of preparation for graduation, senior finals, etc. etc. etc. But I'm done now! It's officially summer, meaning many more updates, with shorter waits in between them.**

**So please read and review? I would appreciate it so, so much. **

She doesn't do well with formalized events.

After their formal introduction, there is a moment when all four Pevensie siblings sit at their thrones, gathered together at the head of the ceremony, and the trumpets blow and announcers cry and everyone falls quiet to listen and to marvel, all hail King Peter the Magnificent and Queen Susan the Wise and King Edmund the Just and Queen Lucy the Gentle, applaud wholeheartedly at their reign and peace and righteousness. Susan look beautiful and Edmund handsome and Lucy adorable, but Peter? Peter is resplendent.

There's a moment, when the light hits him just right and reflects—off his crown his eyes his smile his heart—and he _glows_, shines so bright and so glorious that she, standing off to the side of the congregation with the other dates of Their Majesties, canot bear to look at him, has to turn away in half awe, half pain.

He comes up to her afterwards, offers an arm. She pulls her gaze up to meet his, blinks away the tears that she didn't even realize were there, and smiles tremulously, hoping he cannot see her cry for no reason.

But this, of course, is Peter. He notices immediately.

"What's wrong?" He demands.

"Nothing," she answers, honest like. It's truth. She has no idea what's wrong or if anything even _is_ wrong. She couldn't explain it if she tried.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't believe you. You can talk to me, Anne. If this is about me throwing the whole public procession large audience staring and gaping bit at you so unexpectedly, I'm sorry. I know you don't like formalized events, but you did splendidly and no one could even tell you were nervous, I swear it. I couldn't even tell, and I was standing right next to you."

She grins now, a real one, at his worry. "You don't have to lie to me, Peter. I was there, and I know for a fact I was shaking worse than a hummingbird in a snowstorm. Besides, it's not about that."

"Then what is it?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

"It's just…" She pauses, reflects. Everything is a tumble, a swarm of mass thoughts and words and feelings attacking her, and she can't phrase it. All she can think of is that moment, when he was the Sun, ablaze and awesome. She cannot find words to sum her emotions. There are no words to sum her emotions.

"It's just what?" He prompts at last, impatient.

"Nothing," she murmurs. "It's nothing."

He doesn't believe her, she can tell. Wisely, though, he chooses to let it be, drops the subject, and instead says: "Well, I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you that as my date, you and I are responsible for opening up the dance by having the first one."

She gapes at him for a moment, speechless.

He smiles back half in sheepish guilt, half in amusement.

She does _not_ do well with formalized events.

* * *

It actually takes a while before the first dance is officially held. Peter tucks her hand securely into the crook of his elbow and takes her around the ballroom, courteously greeting guests and introducing people and smiling and nodding and being the diplomatic leader of the country that he is.

Faces and names and backgrounds blur together and she can't tell one from the other soon. Peter notices this and leans down to her ear, murmurs quickly: "This is the downside of being a ruler. I have to _study_ to remember that King Bamgan is deaf in his right ear, but Lord Bam_gon_ is perfectly fine. I made the mistake of shouting once in Bamgon's face. That was fun."

She giggles as this, and the circle of honored guests around them snorts or glares or gasps in disapproval of her lack of respect. She quiets quickly, but has to smother more laughter when she sees Peter's lips twitch upward in amusement from the corner of her eye.

After what seems like an endless tour of the mingling guests, more trumpets blow, and Peter nudges her slightly in the side.

"That's our cue," he whispers. She tightens her grip on his arm, and he has to pry her fingers off. Somewhere, in the very back of her mind, where she is detached and pensive and altogether unaffected by this current dilemma, she wonders idly if her dress absorbs sweat well. It's so odd how one can break out in a _cold_ sweat.

"I detest you right about now," she hisses at him, as the court clears open a space in the middle of the room, with all the guests circled around them, watching respectfully. The orchestra strikes up a song, the melody sweet and carefree.

He swings her gently around so that she's in front of him, places one hand at her waist, and holds the other out. She glares at him, and so he bends down slightly and says: "Come on, Anne. It's just like how we practiced."

She wants to say that he's such a _liar_, it's completely different, when they practiced they didn't have about 100 people watching or the threat of extreme embarrassment looming ominously, that this is the _definition _of pressure and that this is in no way, shape, or form, the same as how they practiced, but then he's pulled her in close, so she can feel the heat of his body against hers, and as a reflex, she slides her hand up his chest to his shoulder and places the other one in his, and his eyes are really very blue, aren't they, and she can't quite think straight anymore, let alone say all that.

There is one awful moment when Peter begins to step to the right and she stumbles, uncertain and caught off guard, and everything freezes, everything seems to center in on her and her mistake. But then she looks up slightly, flushing all the while, and sees Peter, staring at her, quietly mouthing: "_one_twothree_one_twothree," one hand tugging gently at hers, the other pressing on the small of her back, leading her into the dance, and then memory takes over, the steps flowing as natural and easy as breathing. Everything comes rushing back in a torrent, so fast and so swift and so steadying, and she revels in the feeling of it all, the sheer sensation—the adrenaline rush, the giddiness, the floating, the flying, the warmth of Peter, solid and steady and there there _there_, right there with her, the swish of her skirts, soft as silk, against her skin.

She doesn't even know when she comes back to earth, away from the heady state of adrenaline and exhilarated nerves that lifted her up to begin with, but when she does, the rest of the party has already joined in the dance.

She blinks once, twice, and says simply: "Oh."

He laughs at her expression and says: "Welcome back to reality, Lady Elliot. That wasn't that bad, was it?"

She scowls at him because he's right; it really was kind of nice even if it was scary at first, but she could never let him know that, he's right often enough as it is.

"You're still not forgiven," she glowers. "Springing all of that on me? You should've warned me beforehand, Peter, of all the horrors you bring as an escort."

"But then you wouldn't've gone along with it, and you know it," he answers lightly, twirling her effectively. When he pulls her back into his chest, he continues speaking. "You would have fought and sulked and pouted and complained, or you'dve gone into hiding, locked yourself in your room and barred all entrance. You would never have believed me when I told you it would be alright, even though look, it turned out alright. So you see, what I did was a necessary action. The end justifies the means."

"You're still a prick," she says airily. Then she shoots him a glare and adds: "And don't quote Machiavelli at me, you don't believe any of that. I know you, Peter."

"Oh, how I miss those precious minutes when you were scared silent and did nothing but look pretty in quiet," he says, heaving a great sigh in mockery.

She steps forward purposely when she's not supposed to, landing squarely on the toes of his right foot, and watches him wince with wicked pleasure.

"Oops," she says softly when he glares at her.  
He raises an eyebrow and says: "So that's how it's going to be, eh? I see. Well then, Lady Elliot, consider yourself at war."

He doesn't even bother to disguise his attack with the dance steps, pauses entirely and stomps on her foot (not too hard, because he's Peter and always a gentleman above all else, but enough to make her yelp in a most unladylike manner).

"You prat!" She squeals, and then it's an all out battle, with her holding her skirts up so that she can trample him easiest, and he's laughing and dodging and looking so ridiculous avoiding her feet, like he's doing some pagan ritual that involves quick steps and little jumps, and so she laughs at him and he laughs harder and they're not even pretending to dance anymore, it's just a breathless fight on the dance floor. They manage to stay in their little circle of empty space, though, and Anne thanks the heavens for the masses of people crowded around them. Everyone is too absorbed in their own activities to notice this little skirmish.

"Truce!" She gasps out moments later, conveniently offering peace after she's landed the last foot stomp.

"You called that just so you'd have the last word!" Peter protests, and he steps forward indignantly and she squeals as his foot hits its mark. Instant retaliation ensures. She stomps, misses, stomps, misses, stomps, misses.

"I thought you called truce," Peter laughs, dancing wildly out of her reach. She narrows her eyes in annoyance.

"Yes, but you violated our treaty, and therefore deserve punishment for said disobedience," she retorts, and then she runs right up to him, sneak attacks his left foot, watches him wince with a twinge of satisfaction.

"Alright, alright, truce," he mumbles, still making a face. "You got me, alright? Let's be dignified again."

"Difficult to do when you're around," she sniffs, but agreeably takes his hand when he offers it and primly steps back into the beat of the song.

"You're telling me," he chuckles, his voice low and breath soft against her cheek.

Edmund, nearby, catches the last bit of conversation and whips his head around to see what other degrading behavior Anne has led his elder brother into. He sees nothing but the two of them, gliding gracefully along with the music; backs straight and dancing just close enough for propriety and courtesy's sake. He frowns, but turns back around, suspicious and unable to prove anything.

Behind him, Anne bursts into a quiet fit of giggles on Peter's shoulder.

Maybe formalized events aren't that bad, not if one's date is Peter Pevensie.

* * *

She thinks she has everything under control until after the fifth dance. Peter hasn't let her go since the beginning, and she's starting to get a bit breathless from the constant exertion. The orchestra takes a break at last, a lull in between songs, and she pauses to catch her breath, milling about lazily next to her date while he greets dignified guests cordially. She's surprised as to how much _fun_ she's having.

She's thirsty, so she excuses herself to get a drink, waiting in the background until she catches Peter's eye from his peripheral vision. He quirks an eyebrow at her, and she motions to the servants carrying refreshments and mimes sipping water from a cup. He gives a quick nod before turning back to the Lieutenant Colonel—Colonel Lieutenant?—with whom he is currently conversing.

Anne finishes three cups of this heavenly blend of cool chrysanthemum tea and honey, light and fresh and cleansing, before heading back to Peter. What she sees makes her stop dead in her tracks.

The Lieutenant Colonel has left, long gone. In his place is that beautiful Water Elf, the exquisite creature Anne had spied on previously from behind red velvet curtains. She's standing very close to Peter, an apparently he had said something funny, for she tilts her head back and laughs, a silvery, bell like trickle of joy that murmurs and bubbles across the room. Listening closely, Anne can catch every tone and facet of her voice, rich and clear and sweet.

With her face angled up like that, every feature glows hauntingly, every delicately lovely nuance of clear blue white skin and deep purple eyes and finely crafted mouth and nose. Her hair ripples in black blue silk down her back, and her dress hugs her perfect figure before cascading, flowing to the ground and ending in a pool of pure elegance at her dainty feet. Someone as captivating as her should not exist, _cannot_ exist in real life.

Anne watches with a slight twinge in her heart as the Lady leans forward slightly to talk softly to Peter, sees those almost translucent blue fingers flutter to brush his arm.

They are so beautiful together, the definition of magnificence. There is no doubt in her mind that this is the suitable match, purity with purity, grace with grace, loveliness with loveliness. She realizes that in the last half hour or so, she had begun to allow herself to hope again, to think wistfully of a potential future with Peter. The realization of her foolishness throbs and burns, so she turns away quickly from the sight.

The party becomes stifling again, thick and strangling with her doubts muffling the air. All her fears and dark thoughts, so easily alleviated by Peter's charm and smile and soothing presence, begin to weigh her down and smother and suffocate and choke until she can barely breathe and keep them back, the tears and the ache are stinging so fiercely behind her eyes. The world spins too quickly, a whirlwind of noise and color, too bright, too vivid, too _there._

So she does what she always has; she stumbles backwards for a few steps, eyes still trained on the two in the center of the room, and then she quickly turns tail and flees. She pushes past lords and ladies and lieutenant colonels and colonel lieutenants, runs until she's outside, in the gardens, gasping for breath.

She is alone, and the air is cool and crisp and fresh, and the sky is sprinkled with stars, stretching from here to infinity. She rids her heart of all its troubles, inhales deeply, and follows the path traced by specks of light with her soul, travels the depths of the universe and back. It's a clear night, a beautiful night, and she simply leans against a tree and breathes for a while, deep and slow, affected from the journey. Her eyes flutter shut and she thinks of her mother and how she misses her. Her mother always did like open air and countryside.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, heart slowing gradually, enveloped in shadows. Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour. It's just her and the sky and eternity.

**A/N: I was originally planning on continuing the chapter until…something drastic happens…but then I decided that I've made you all wait long enough, I'll upload this now and then work on perfecting the "drastic happening" later. That being said, please read and review! It'll motivate me to keep going : ). **


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Look at this quick update

**A/N: Look at this quick update! You all had better review to keep me motivated : ). No, but seriously, thank you so, so much for all your support and encouragement. I appreciate it beyond words. **

It's the twig snap nearby that shakes her from her reverie with a shriek.

"Ow," he comments. "Sensitive ears and frightened woman do not a good combination make."

She turns to the culprit; hand over pounding heart and breath coming faster than usual. Sinking onto a nearby bench, she says accusingly: "Don't you _ever_ do that again. You scared me witless. Why didn't you just call for me?"

"Sorry, milady," Thandril replies, sliding easily into place next to her. He drums his fingers on the cold stone beneath them a little, then leans forward slightly and supports himself with his arms on his knees, fingers interlaced. He turns to grin at her. "Just for the record, however, I did call for you. You were just too busy off in some faraway place of your imagination to notice. By the by, where were you?"

"In the land of truth and consequences," she murmurs, thinking of Peter and Lyrianne the Water Elf and her mother all at once. She crosses her feet at her ankles and then leans back on her palms.

"Ah," he remarks casually. "I hate that place."

"Not my favorite, either," she says, breathing out a laugh. A comfortable pause. They look at the stars for a minute, two, before she speaks, glancing at him casually. "How've you been, Thandril? You look really nice."

And it is truth. The young elf really is charm embodied. He cleans up well.

He runs a hand through his dark curls and grins, that familiar, lopsided smile she adores. "Well, that makes one of us."

She elbows him in the ribs sharply, and he flinches off to the side and laughs.

"You didn't let me finish, woman!" He cries. "I was going to say that you looked _stunning_, which is much, much better than nice."

"A good save, but flattery shall get you nowhere," she retorts. "Your untruthfulness, albeit well performed, is not a necessary asset to this conversation."

"I wasn't lying," he says, rolling his eyes. "You really do look stunning. I like that color, it works well with your eyes."

He leans over and brushes her skirt quickly to indicate the grey he so favors. Then he straightens up and looks at her, and his lips quirk upwards, a twist of bitter irritation in his face.

"Just ask High King Peter the Magnificent if you need a second opinion."

The whole air around them changes, tenses from that loose ease she has come to associate with his presence. This isn't where she wants the conversation to go.

"Thandril…" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"He wouldn't let go of you the whole night," he says softly. "I just…Elliot. I think I at least deserve an explanation. Wouldn't you agree?"

This is not happening. This is not the way she pictured the night going. Of all the awful, awful conversations that could be piled on top of what is turning out to be an awful evening, this tops them all.

He takes her silence as a chance to keep ranting.

"I mean, I guess I hadn't asked you to go to the celebration with me," he continues, oblivious of her torment next to him. "But Elle, I thought it was kind of assumed. There were our talks and then that dinner, and then…well, after dinner…and in the hallway…And it's not like I really, really have a problem with you dancing with him, just as long as…well, just as long…"

He pauses and looks up at her.

"Just as long as that's it," he whispers. "I need to know if that's it, Anne. If this is just a dance, just one night. Or if there's more to it."

"Thandril…" she starts again, but her voice chokes up in her throat and cracks, and she looks quickly away from him and swipes her eyes.

"I really like you, I promise," he says fervently. "I don't know if you've heard all the stuff about me earlier and my questionable dating history and that's scaring you off or what, but I _really_ like you. I can do commitment, I swear it."

"Thandril, that's not it," she manages. "It's not that I don't trust you."

"Then what?" He asks worriedly. He takes one of her hands and holds it gently in between both of his, presses a bit. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing you did," she whispers. "You're wonderful, Thandril. You're sweet and you're caring and you're funny and you're _wonderful_. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to lead you on or to toy with your feelings, I really didn't. I really do like you, I do."

A hollow pause.

"But?" He prompts at last, and lets out a forced laugh. "I can feel a 'but' coming."

"But I think…" she begins, then lets out a dry sob. Steadying herself, she raises her eyes to his, tear filled and sad. "But I think I'm in love with Peter."

A silence.

She hears herself say it without really believing it, but once it's said, once it's out there, tangible and vocalized, hanging and drifting and taunting her in the air, she knows it's honest. It echoes around the still night, reverberates between stars and moon and dark velvet sky, flames and blazes, burns bright bright bright as only truth can.

He still doesn't speak.

Her heart is pounding and her breath coming faster, but it's said, it's done, there's nothing she can do to take it back.

She sucks in a breath and turns to face him.

What she sees makes her heart twist and something deep inside shatter. This isn't how it's supposed to work. This isn't how it happens. Good, charming, caring, kind people like Thandril deserve a happily ever after. She didn't mean to hurt him. This isn't how it's supposed to work.

"Thandril—" she chokes out, and she's helpless, she grabs at him, wills the color back to his white face and drawn lips. She wishes he'd smile, he always smiles, she loves his smile. All he does is stare ahead and look _empty_.

"This isn't how it's supposed to go," she gasps, and she's sobbing, tears freely falling. "I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear it. You were nothing but wonderful to me, the best friend I could've asked for, and this wasn't supposed to happen. Oh, Thandril, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

She stares at up him, pleading that he'll understand. She's selfish and she's cruel and she's manipulative, but she _cares_ for him, and this wasn't how it was supposed to end. She didn't mean for this to happen. A whimper escapes from her lips.

He visibly snaps out of it, and she can see him muster up a halfhearted grin, an echo of that beautiful happy smile she loves so much, turn and hug her.

"Hey, it's alright, Ellie," he whispers. He envelopes her in his arms and she collapses against him, because it's _not_, it's _not_ alright, this isn't how it's supposed to work. "It's okay. Elle, it's okay."

He rubs small circles on her back and she wants to _die_ because he's been nothing but sweet and wonderful through and through, even at the end, and she doesn't deserve this sort of care.

"It's not okay," she sobs. "I'm so sorry, Thandril."

A moment, long and drawn out. She thinks she hears eternity pass in these seconds, in this agony. He squares his shoulders and raises his nose a bit. His strength that drew her to him at first breaks her heart.

"It _is_ okay," he insists firmly, gripping her chin and lifting her eyes to meet his. "You can't help who you do and don't love. You love him, Elliot. I can see it in your eyes. He's right for you, and you're made for him. That's…that's how this life works. And I'll move on, Elle. I will. It's going to be okay."

She clutches him tightly and buries her face in his chest, wishing that somehow she could take away his hurt, wash him clean of his ache.

He leans down and murmurs softly in her ear: "I wish you the best, Anne Elliot. Take care of yourself."

And then he squeezes her hand tightly once, brushes back her sweaty hair with a gentle finger, and presses his lips to her forehead softly.

Then he's gone, and she has nothing but cold quiet around her again.

* * *

When he finds her, she has run out of tears and has resorted to the dry sobs, the body wracking kind. She's curled up into a ball on some stone bench a stretch out from the castle, just far enough so that the light dims, a faded glow, on her skin and dress. Even from a distance, though, he can hear her crying.

He walks right up to her and without thinking of propriety and social restrictions, crushes her into his side, wraps his arms around her. She responds immediately to his warmth and his presence, turns so that she can press her cheek quietly against his chest.

They stay like that for a moment, just simply clinging to each other. Far away the orchestra plays a sweet melody, and the harmony floats out to their ears, the echo of music the only noise to break the silence. He breaks away first, releases his firm grip on her head, which he had been pressing against him.

"You little twat," he says gently, wiping away a tear from her cheek. "You had me worried sick."

She starts to reply in some sort of apology, he knows it, but she's kind of snotty and choked up, and breaks down into hiccupped tears again before anything comprehensive can come out.

"Shhh," he whispers soothingly. "Don't talk, don't worry about it. You're safe, that's all that matters."

Her eyes are really very red and swollen, and her skin goes blotchy when she cries, but he still thinks she looks beautiful. Maybe that's just the relief speaking.

Even though he's let go of her and is no longer death gripping her body, she still breaks their unspoken rule of limited physical contact and leans against his shoulder, resting her head there. And hiccups. It's the saddest, most pathetic hiccup he's heard, and he doesn't like it when she cries, he's decided.

"Am I really that awful of a date?" He jokes at long last, hoping to lighten the mood. "I mean, I know I threw a lot at you at once, but we could've just talked about it instead of you running away from me, eh?"

He throws a halfhearted smile at her, and is aghast to see her grey eyes brimming again with tears, large and starry in the night.

"Oh, Anne, don't do that," he murmurs, and hugs her again. "Seriously, I _really_ don't like it when you do that. Stop that."

His admonishment would probably mean more if his tone and actions weren't so gentle. She sniffles obnoxiously; she's being such a crybaby, and she probably looks awful right now, but she can't stop can't stop can't stop. All she can think of is how Thandril looked moments before he broke away, all broken and shattered.

A few minutes later, she pulls away from him. He releases her willingly, and watches as she shakes her head slightly, tosses her hair back, and swipes at her eyes and nose. She straightens her shoulder and offers him a weak smile.

"Sorry about that," she says, her voice slightly hoarse from all the crying. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Shut up, Anne," he rolls his eyes. "If you apologize once more, I'll give you something to really cry about."

She laughs out loud for real this time, because the thought of Peter physically harming her is entirely ludicrous. He sags with relief that she's feeling better.

A pause. She reflects on how utterly _horrendous_ this night has been, and remembers quite vividly why, exactly, she detests formal events. They always bring mass amounts of pain and suffering, if her recollections serve correctly.

She sniffles again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Peter asks her after a couple more minutes pass. She looks up at him, and he completely misinterprets her look of gratitude and backtracks hastily. "I completely understand if you don't. I'm not trying to be nosy or to pry or anything, I just…I don't like seeing you cry, Anne, and I care about you and I want to know what's wrong."

The last part is said very quietly and very seriously. He turns to look her in the eye so she can see just how sincere he is. It touches her.

"It was Thandril," she sighs at long last, twisting her hands in her lap. Her eyes, downcast, miss the rigidity and tension that comes into Peter's body and face at the mention of the name. "He…he came out and wanted to talk, I guess."

"And what did he say?" Peter demands. His voice is strangely strangled and harsh. She flicks her gaze up at him to see him straight backed and frowning.

"He wanted to know what we were," she whispers, gesturing between herself and her bench mate. "He wanted to know if he had a chance at anything…beyond friendship."

"And what did you say?" Even to his own ears, he sounds different. His voice grates against his nerves, but his blood is thrumming angrily and so he blocks it out easily.

"I told him no," Anne replies. "I told him he was wonderful and a good friend, and I cared for him and he deserved love but…I couldn't give it to him."

A pause. His shoulders literally sag with relief. A tear trickles down her cheek again. Peter notices and frowns.

"Are you…sure?" He asks, tentatively. "I mean, if you've been out here sobbing for an hour because of it, it doesn't seem like a very good choice to me."

She nods once, firmly. "I'm sure."

Another pause.

"Anne, if you'd be happy with him," he begins tiredly, his treacherous voice saying words he knows he will regret later. "Then go. I just want you to be happy."

She marvels at how much care has been given to her, how much love poured upon her undeserving being. She is in awe of how _blessed_ she is.

"I know you do, Peter," she answers softly. "And I want you to know I appreciate it so, so much."

"It's nothing," he murmurs vaguely, obviously ill at ease. Anne wants to laugh. From drunken rants to snotty sobbing outbursts, Peter handles her mood swings with utmost grace. Compliment him, however, and the man looks like he wants to hide in a hole and hibernate.

She clears her thoughts with a little shake of her head.

"No, Peter, it's not," she says firmly. "It's so much more than nothing. You've cared for me and listened to me and suffered from me and been there for me, through everything that I've thrown at you. And I want you to know I appreciate you, your kindness, and your friendship more than I can express."

"Anne…" he begins gruffly, but she cuts him off with a hand on his arm.

"You are the best thing that's ever happened to me," she says, and her eyes shine honest in the moonlight, and he's wondering vaguely if hearts are supposed to beat this fast, to pound quite so furiously against ribcages. Ribcages are probably not meant to sustain such activity.

She always knew he would come for her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that no matter what happens, if she needs him, he will be there. She can pinpoint the exact moment his eyes landed upon her form, because she had _felt _it, felt his gaze like some physical force. He is Peter, her rock through all.

And now he's here, in all his glory. Not with Lyrianne, not with Colonel Lieutenants and Lieutenant Colonels and Lords and Ladies and members of the Court, but with her, in some remote corner of the gardens, on some cold lonely bench in the shadows. He's here. With her.

"You mean the world to me, Anne," he breathes, and a slow breeze stirs his golden hair. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue in the entire world, and in the soft light of the evening, he is so lovely that it hurts.

Her eyelids flutter shut of their own accord, and her lashes are sparkling and bright, starred by the tears. A blush spreads across her cheeks as she leans in slightly, and he literally is mesmerized. He has never seen anything so captivating in his life.

"Anne, are you sure?" He asks again, but this isn't about Thandril, Thandril is forgotten.

"Positive," she murmurs, staring him in the eye, grey meeting blue, and in that moment, in that connection, something burns and bursts and he sees all the encouragement he needs.

He moves the last few inches forward and brushes his lips against hers, soft and hesitant, gentle and sweet.

**A/N: Seriously. If you guys don't review after this, I will have to hide in a corner and cry my eyes out. It's 2:45 a.m. and it took me FOREVER to write this chapter, but I think I finally like it alright. **

**Let me know how you feel about it? Thank you so, so much. **

**More reviews quicker updates ********. **


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Oh my goodness. It has been so, so long since I've updated this story. I'm really really sorry for the neglect--thank you for all your encouragement to continue this. I've just been so busy with school and work and sports, and there's been very little time to do any writing outside of that which is required for classes. Anyway, my apologies again. This story is nearing it's end--I'd say another two or three chapters, depending on how I want to split up the last little bit? Regardless, please keep reading and reviewing. It's such an encouragement to me to hear your opinions, whether negative or positive. **

**Thank you guys so much :).  
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It's kind of like flying and falling all at once, some odd combination of thrill, fear, and adrenaline, soaring and crashing, gasping for breath and sighing. She melts into him while her fingers tremble and shake convulsively, leans into him subconsciously as she rips apart at the seams. She is vulnerable and she is uncertain and she is frightened, frightened beyond belief, scared of the impact of her recklessness and the consequence and the _whatnextwhatnextwhatnext_.

But his heartbeat is steady and his body is firm, lean and durable, and as she listens to the dull thud through roaring ears, she knows with solidity that he will be there through whatever comes next. That thought keeps running through her head as his lips part softly and she responds, presses herself into him, trusting in him implicitly to absorb that shock.

It's an abyss off which she hurls herself, dark and bottomless, looming endlessly, a chasm of the unknown.

But he will be waiting at the end of her fall.

And so she lets herself go.

* * *

They trip gaily back into the ballroom with cheeks flushed and hair mussed, straightening themselves as they blush even deeper. It's a charming sight, the slender, pretty girl next to the tall young man, straight backed and bashful. He tucks her hand firmly into the crook of his elbow and she doesn't resist.

They don't talk, but they don't need to. When she isn't watching, when she's glancing around the ballroom nervously or trying to pin back one wayward curl to no avail, he looks at her like she is starlight, all splintered silver. There are a myriad of emotions in his face, flickering from phase to phase, each too new to this young boy-man for him to hold any longer than a second.

The girl, in turn, clings to him as if her world has re-centered, gravity redefined. Physically, it is nothing more than a slight lean of the shoulders, a tendency to shift her weight towards him, unnoticed by the unobservant. But in her aura there is a fear of judgment and a quiet desperation, comforted only by his presence at her side. He is her balm, her soothing ointment, and she cannot live this new life without him there.

They circle the ballroom almost lazily, merely observers to this bizarre new reality where the two of them stand together. In the soft glow of the moonlight, everything had seemed hazy, dreamlike. There was a mist of idealism in the air, a sort of ethereality to that stone bench draped by those languid fairy ivies, covered by the heavy tree branches and soaked in the cool beauty of the night. There, amidst the silver and the soft and the solitude, they had existed in a paradise.

This world is different, though. The band echoes lightly in the background, the click of glasses and clack of heels oddly cacophonous. Everything is brighter, too—harsher and clearer, lifting that lazy fog of romance. Here, the musicians have not missed a beat. The courtiers still idle and sniff, the chit chat still rolls and dips. She takes note of how rough the swish of a skirt sounds, the grate to the lilt of a laugh.

It's like a new world that she has entered, bizarrely familiar and jagged to her senses. She knows that if Peter weren't there beside her holding her up, she would have crumpled by now.

* * *

It isn't until later that night that Edmund finds her. The orchestra has stopped, the remaining guests are milling slowly towards their rooms in the castle, or towards the door if they live nearby. She's exhausted—it's been a long, weary night, but the kind with a quiet smile curling and wisping at the corners. She is peaceful and she is happy, so content with the world in which she dwells.

She sees him out of the corner of her eye as she steps onto the balcony, but is oddly surprised to find that her heartbeat doesn't quicken, her pulse thud and race. This isn't the same Anne Elliot that ran out of the castle in an outburst of jealousy and temper, consumed with self-doubt and pity. Something has settled and solidified, slowed and gentled. It's a small shock to realize that she's not a child anymore; that somewhere along the way she has grown up, slipped quietly into the world of womanhood.

"Hello, Edmund," she greets him first. She stands with her back to the ballroom, leaning on her elbows with fingers crossed out a window. The fresh air smells good.

"Anne," he begrudges. He shifts from leg to leg behind her, and although she doesn't turn around, she can imagine him with arms folded defensively, scowl firmly in place. The image doesn't strike her with terror anymore. She remains silent, waiting for him to burst.

"Can we talk?" He asks at last.

"Come stand by me," she replies as way of agreement. He shuffles a bit first—from one foot to other, before heaving a sigh and coming to the railing by her. He still won't look at her face to face. She gestures lightly out into the world, all moonlit and silent. "Isn't Narnia beautiful?"

His expression softens a bit at the honest admiration in her voice, and he acquiesces: "It is."

A moment. She can see him struggling to find words fitting the accusations building in his head. His very brow furrows and contorts, and he finally opens his mouth to speak.

"Anne, I think it's better to be fra—"

"I'm very lucky to be here, you know."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the interruption, but she continues fluidly, like she doesn't notice.

"I really needed this. I needed it so much I didn't even know I needed it. Does that make any sense? I don't know if you're getting what I'm saying."

She turns her head to look at him, and he flushes under her eyes but remains quiet.

"What I'm trying to say, Edmund, is that I've changed a lot since I've gotten here." She raises her chin slightly and looks him straight in the eye, and for once, he is the one drawing back, shrinking away, unsure. "When I got here, I had no faith in anything. I don't think there was a single person I trusted, including myself."

He stares at her like he's never seen her before, and it's unnerving, but she needs to press on. She digs deep into her memory—it's kind of clouded and foggy and so hard to remember anything before this golden age, but she needs to.

"When I got here," she says quietly, still looking straight at him. "My father and my brother had gone missing during the War—the one back in England, that is. My mother was heartbroken and drank herself into ruin. She and I had just been evicted from our apartment, her into rehab, me into a charity house."

She can't read his expression, can't see how he's feeling apart from intense concentration.

It's a little hard to keep going, and her voice shakes when she says: "We used to be so happy, and it all crumbled. There wasn't anything left living for." Memories flash through her head of smiles and sunshine and laughter and love, her whole world afloat in happiness. She feels her lower lip tremble in response to this wave, this onslaught. But she has a purpose here—and she intends to follow through.

She sucks in a breath and squares her shoulders. "When I got here, I had nothing, and I hated anyone who had anything. But you gave me something worth fighting for."

She turns to him completely now, places a soft hand on his arm. "I want to thank you, Edmund."

His eyebrows shoot up and he gapes in surprise and she almost giggles at how his face blanches. "For what?"

"For the second chance."

She squeezes his arm and smiles at him as warmly as she can, and watches, heart alight, when he returns one—a genuine smile—in return.

"Thank you for helping me, milady."

She has a sudden urge to envelope him in a hug, but they're too fresh and new at this truce thing for that yet, so she settles instead for squeezing his arm again before turning around and walking back to the ballroom.

"Wait, Anne!" Edmund calls. She stops and turns around to look at him quizzically.

"Have you told Peter any of this?" He asks.

She shakes her head. "Not yet."

"You should," he says solemnly. "Peter…Peter really…_cares_ about you."

She can't stop the smile from overwhelming her now.

"I know," she says. "I care about him too."

And she steps back into the ballroom with her heart quietly ablaze.

* * *

**A/N: This is easily the worst chapter I think I've written in at least six months, but it's been so long since I've updated, and I'm so sorry. It's just really hard to get back into the swing of things, I guess. Please forgive me and review anyway? Let me know what I can work on, what was too cheesy or melodramatic, what you liked, what you didn't. **

**I promise with your help and encouragement that I'll update again sooner. Thank you so much for your support. **


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